Bjryjrjrjo^^ 

LIBRARY 

OF  THE 

JNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA. 

GIFT  OF 

GEORGE  MOREY1  RICHARDSON. 

Received,  August,  1898. 

ccession  No.  2$ I U  £       Class  No- 

IJ2  ' 


CAMEO    EDITION 


REVERIES  OF  A  BACHELOR  ;  or,  a  Book  of  the  Heart.    By 
Donald  G.  Mitchell.    With  an  Etching  by  Percy  Moran. 

DREAM  LIFE.    A  Fable  of  the  Seasons.    With  an  Etching 
by  Percy  Moran. 

OLD  CREOLE  DAYS.    By  George  W.  Cable.   With  an  Etching 
by  Percy  Moran. 

IN  OLE  VIRGINIA.    By  Thomas  Nelson  Page.    With  an  Etch- 
ing by  W.  L.  Sheppard. 

BITTER-SWEET.    A  Poem.    By  J.G.Holland.    With  an  Etch- 
ing by  Otto  Bacher. 

KATHRINA.    A  Poem.    By  J.  G.  Holland.    With  an  Etching 
by  Otto  Bacher. 

LETTERS  TO   DEAD   AUTHORS.    By  Andrew  Lang.    With 
an  Etched  Portrait  by  S.  J.  Ferris. 

"  VIRGINIBUS  PUERISQUE."    By  Robert  Louis  Stevenson. 
With  an  Etched  Portrait  by  S.  J.  Ferris. 


Each,  one  volume,  16mo. 
Half  calf,  g.  t.,  $2.75;  half  levant,  $3.50;  cloth,  $1.25. 


LETTERS   TO    DEAD   AUTHORS 


BY  ANDREW   LANG 


.  Y 


LETTERS 


DEAD   AUTHORS 


BY 

ANDREW  LANG 


WITH  AN  ETCHED  PORTRAIT  BY  S.  J.  FERRIS 
AND  FOUR  ADDITIONAL  LETTERS 


NEW  YORK 

CHARLES    SCRIBNER'S   SONS 
1893 


Copyright,  1893,  t>y 
CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 


THE  DEVINNE  PRESS 


INTRODUCTION 


To  the  Gentle  Reader 


EAR  SIR  OR  MADAM,— This  little 
book  was  first  written  several  years 
ago,  at  the  suggestion  of  Mr.  Green- 
wood, then  editor  of  the  St.  James's 
Gazette.  The  idea  was  Mr.  Greenwood's;  the 
author  confesses  that  it  did  not  exactly  smile  on 
him,  but  a  journalist  must  "  do  his  darg,"  and  any 
"darg  "  of  a  literary  sort  is  pleasanter  than  another 
to  a  bookworm.  The  public,  it  is  well  known, 
seldom  regards  a  man's  performances  with  the  eye 
of  the  writer  himself.  For  some  reason  the  kind- 
ness of  readers  has  favored  a  volume  which  is  not 
the  author's  favorite ;  he  has  his  own  ugly  duck- 
lings that  are  much  more  dear  to  him  than  "  Letters 
to  Dead  Authors."  Perhaps  we  all  naturally  pre- 
fer the  work  which  has  given  us  most  trouble, 
perhaps  that  which  comes  most  easily  is  naturally 


vi  LETTERS  TO  DEAD  AUTHORS 

the  least  inadequate.  Certainly  letter-writing  to 
the  illustrious  dead  comes  easily  enough;  though 
the  task  never  satisfies  my  sense  of  reverence. 
To  this  edition,  "  by  special  request "  of  the 
American  publishers,  four  new  letters  have  been 
added — letters  to  John  Knox,  Increase  Mather, 
Homer,  and  Mr.  Samuel  Pepys.  To  be  printed 
in  a  pretty  form  tempts  industry;  yet  more  is  it 
stimulated  by  the  thought  of  producing  a  sister 
volume  toMr.  Stevenson's  "VirginibusPuerisque." 
Only  in  format,  paper,  type,  binding,  is  there  any 
sisterhood  or  similarity.  All  the  Muses  came  to 
Mr.  Stevenson's  cradle,  and  gave  him  the  gift  of 
story-telling,  the  enchantments  of  style:  charm 
and  genius.  There  is  no  thought  of  rivalry  in 
this  little  book,  which  is  content  to  admire  and 
delight  in  great  writers  dead  and  gone,  to  smile 
sympathetically  at  Chapelain  and  Increase  Ma- 
ther, men  not  so  great,  but  very  human.  If  any 
who  read  this  book  about  books  are  moved  to 
read  the  books  themselves,  it  will  not  have  been 
written  quite  in  vain.  But  we  are  apt,  in  these 
matters,  to  remain  content  at  two  removes  from 
reality. 

ANDREW  LANG. 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 

I.  To  W.  M.  THACKERAY, 3 

II.  To  CHARLES  DICKENS,       .        .        .        .  n 

III.  To  PIERRE  DE  RONSARD,       .        .        .  .21 

IV.  To  HERODOTUS, 33 

V.  EPISTLE  TO  MR.  ALEXANDER  POPE,      .  .    45 

VI.  To  LUCIAN  OF  SAMOSATA,  53 

VII.  To  MA!TRE  FRAN£OYS  RABELAIS,          .  .    63 

VIII.  To  JANE  AUSTEN, 71 

IX.  To  MASTER  ISAAK  WALTON,         .        .  .81 

X.  To  M.  CHAPELAIN, 91 

XI.  To  SIR  JOHN  MAUNDEVILLE,  KT.,         .  .  101 

XII.  To  ALEXANDRE  DUMAS,     ....  109 

XIII.  To  THEOCRITUS,      .        .        .        .        .  .  119 

XIV.  To  EDGAR  ALLAN  POE 129 

XV.  To  SIR  WALTER  SCOTT,  BART.,     .        .  .139 

XVI.  To  EUSEBIUS  OF  OESAREA,       .        .        .  149 

XVII.  To  PERCY  BYSSHE  SHELLEY,          .        .  .159 
XVIII.  To  MONSIEUR  DE  MOLIERE,  VALET  DE    . 

CHAMBRE  DU  Roi,      .        .        ,        .  .169 


viii  LETTERS   TO  DEAD  AUTHORS 

PAGE 

XIX.  To  ROBERT  BURNS, 179 

XX.  To  LORD  BYRON, 189 

XXI.  To  OMAR  KHAYYAM, 197 

XXII.  To  Q.  HORATIUS  FLACCUS,    .        .        .        .203 


XXIII.  To  MAISTER  IOHN  KNOX,      .        .        .        .213 

XXIV.  To  THE  REVEREND  INCREASE  MATHER,   .       223 
XXV.  To  HOMER, 235 

XXVI.  To  SAMUEL  PEPYS,  ESQ 245 


TO   W.  M.  THACKERAY 


ISITY  ' 


To  W.  M.  Thackeray 


ER1IR,— rrhere  are  many  things  that  stand 
in  the  way  of  the  critic  when  he  has  a 
mind  to  praise  the  living.  He  may 
dread  the  charge  of  writing  rather  to 
vex  a  rival  than  to  exalt  the  subject  of  his  applause. 
He  shuns  the  appearance  of  seeking  the  favor  of 
the  famous,  and  would  not  willingly  be  regarded 
as  one  of  the  many  parasites  who  now  advertise 
each  movement  and  action  of  contemporary  genius^ 
"Such  and  such  men  of  letters  are  passing  their 
summer  holidays  in  the  Val  d'Aosta,"  or  the 
Mountains  of  the  Moon,  or  the  Suliman  Range,  as 
it  may  happen.  So  reports  our  literary  Court 
Circular,  and  all  our  Precieuses  read  the  tidings 
with  enthusiasm.  Lastly,  if  the  critic  be  quite  new 
to  the  world  of  letters,  he  may  superfluously  fear 
to  vex  a  poet  or  a  novelist  by  the  abundance  of  his 


4  LETTERS   TO  DEAD  AUTHORS 

eulogy.  No  such  doubts  perplex  us  when,  with 
all  our  hearts,  we  would  commend  the  departed ; 
for  they  have  passed  almost  beyond  the  reach  even 
of  envy;  and  to  those  pale  cheeks  of  theirs  no 
commendation  can  bring  the  red.^, 
^You,  above  all  others,  were  anoremain  without 
a  rival  in  your  many-sided  excellence,  and  praise 
of  you  strikes  at  none  of  those  who  have  survived 
your  day.  The  increase  of  time  only  mellows  your 
renown,  and  each  year  that  passes  and  brings  you 
no  successor  does  but  sharpen  the  keenness  of  our 
sense  of  loss.  In  what  other  novelist,  since  Scott 
was  worn  down  by  the  burden  of  a  forlorn  en- 
deavor, and  died  for  honor's  sake,  has  the  world 
found  so  many  of  the  fairest  gifts  combined  ?JIf 
we  may  not  call  you  a  poet  (for  the  first  of  Eng- 
lish writers  of  light  verse  did  not  seek  that  crown), 
who  that  was  less  than  a  poet  ever  saw  life  with  a 
glance  so  keen  as  yours,  so  steady,  and  so  sane? 
Your  pathos  was  never  cheap,  your  laughter  never 
forced ;  your  sigh  was  never  the  pulpit  trick  of  the 
preacher.  Your  funny  people  —  your  Costignns 
and  Fokers  —  were  not  mere  characters  of  trick 
and  catchword,  were  not  empty  comic  masks. 
Behind  each  the  human  heart  was  beating;  and 
ever  and  again  we  were  allowed  to  see  the  features 
of  the  man. 

Thus  fiction  in  your  hands  was  not  simply  a 
profession,  like  another,  but  a  constant  reflection 
of  the  whole  surface  of  life :  a  repeated  echo  of  its 
laughter  and  its  complaint.  Others  have  written. 


TO    W.  M.   THACKERAY  5 

and  not  written  badly,  with  the  stolid  professional 
regularity  of  the  clerk  at  his  desk;  you,  like  the 
Scholar  Gipsy,  might  have  said  that  "it  needs 
heaven-sent  moments  for  this,  skill. "  There  are, 
it  will  not  surprise  you,  some  honorable  women 
and  a  few  men  who  call  you  a  cynic ;  who  speak 
of  "  the  withered  world  of  Thackerayan  satire  " ; 
who  think  your  eyes  were  ever  turned  to  the  sordid 
aspects  of  life  —  to  the  mother-in-law  who  threat- 
ens to  "  take  away  her  silver  bread-basket " ;  to  the 
intriguer,  the  sneak,  the  termagant ;  to  the  Beckys, 
and  Barnes  Newcomes,  and  Mrs.  Mackenzies  of 
this  world.  The  quarrel  of  these  sentimentalists 
is  really  with  life,  not  with  you;  they  might  as 
wisely  blame  Monsieur  Buffon  because  there  are 
snakes  in  his  Natural  History.  Had  you  not  im- 
paled certain  noxious  human  insects,  you  would 
have  better  pleased  Mr.  Ruskin  ;  had  you  confined 
yourself  to  such  performances,  you  would  have 
been  more  dear  to  the  Neo-Balzacian  school  in 
fiction. 

You  are  accused  of  never  having  drawn  a  good 
woman  who  was  not  a  doll,  but  the  ladies  that 
bring  this  charge  seldom  remind  us  either  of  Lady 
Castlewood  or  of  Theo  or  Hetty  Lambert.  The 
best  women  can  pardon  you  Becky  Sharp  and 
Blanche  Amory ;  they  find  it  harder  to  forgive  you 
Emmy  Sedley  and  Helen  Pendennis.  Yet  what 
man  does  not  know  in  his  heart  that  the  best  women 
—  God  bless  them  —  lean,  in  their  characters,  either 
to  the  sweet  passiveness  of  Emmy  or  to  the  sensi- 


6  LETTERS   TO  DEAD  AUTHORS 

live  and  jealous  affections  of  Helen  ?  'T  is  Heaven, 
not  you,  that  made  them  so ;  and  they  are  easily 
pardoned,  both  for  being  a  very  little  lower  than 
the  angels  and  for  their  gentle  ambition  to  be 
painted,  as  by  Guido  or  Guercino,  with  wings  and 
harps  and  haloes.  So  ladies  have  occasionally 
seen  their  own  faces  in  the  glass  of  fancy,  and, 
thus  inspired,  have  drawn  Romola  and  Consuelo. 
Yet  when  these  fair  idealists,  Mdme.  Sand  and 
George  Eliot,  designed  Rosamond  Vincy  and 
Horace,  was  there  not  a  spice  of  malice  in  the 
portraits  which  we  miss  in  your  least  favorable 
studies  ? 

That  the  creator  of  Colonel  Newcome  and  of 
Henry  Esmond  was  a  snarling  cynic;  that  he  who 
designed  Rachel  Esmond  could  not  draw  a  good 
woman :  these  are  the  chief  charges  (all  indiffer- 
ent now  to  you,  who  were  once  so  sensitive)  that 
your  admirers  have  to  contend  against.  A  French 
critic,  M.  Taine,  also  protests  that  you  do  preach 
too  much.  Did  any  author  but  yourself  so  fre- 
quently break  the  thread  (seldom  a  strong  thread) 
of  his  plot  to  converse  with  his  reader  and  moral- 
ize his  tale,  we  also  might  be  offended.  But  who 
that  loves  Montaigne  and  Pascal,  who  that  likes 
the  wise  trifling  of  the  one  and  can  bear  with  the 
melancholy  of  the  other,  but  prefers  your  preaching 
to  another's  playing ! 

Your  thoughts  come  in,  like  the  intervention  of 
the  Greek  Chorus,  as  an  ornament  and  source  of 
fresh  delight.  Like  the  songs  of  the  Chorus,  they 


TO   W.  M.   THACKERAY  7 

bid  us  pause  a  moment  over  the  wider  laws  and 
actions  of  human  fate  and  human  life,  and  we  turn 
from  your  persons  to  yourself,  and  again  from 
yourself  to  your  persons,  as  from  the  odes  of  Sopho- 
cles or  Aristophanes  to  the  action  of  their  charac- 
ters on  the  stage.  Nor,  to  my  taste,  does  the  mere 
music  and  melancholy  dignity  of  your  style  in  these 
passages  of  meditation  fall  far  below  the  highest 
efforts  of  poetry.  I  remember  that  scene  where 
Clive,  at  Barnes  Newcome's  Lecture  on  the  Poetry 
of  the  Affections,  sees  Ethel  who  is  lost  to  him. 
"  And  the  past  and  its  dear  histories,  and  youth  and 
its  hopes  and  passions,  and  tones  and  looks  for 
ever  echoing  in  the  heart  and  present  in  the  memory 
—these,  no  doubt,  poor  Clive  saw  and  heard  as  he 
looked  across  the  great  gulf  of  time,  and  parting 
and  grief,  and  beheld  the  woman  he  had  loved  for 
many  years." 

For  ever  echoing  in  the  heart  and  present  in  the 
memory  :  who  has  not  heard  these  tones,  who  does 
not  hear  them  as  he  turns  over  your  books  that, 
for  so  many  years,  have  been  his  companions  and 
comforters  ?  We  have  been  young  and  old,  we 
have  been  sad  and  merry  with  you,  we  have  lis- 
tened to  the  midnight  chimes  with  Pen  and  War- 
rington,  have  stood  with  you  beside  the  death-bed, 
have  mourned  at  that  yet  more  awful  funeral  of 
lost  love,  and  with  you  have  prayed  in  the  inmost 
chapel  sacred  to  our  old  and  immortal  affections, 
a  leal  souvenir!  And  whenever  you  speak  for 
yourself,  and  speak  in  earnest,  how  magical,  how 


8  LETTERS   TO  DEAD  AUTHORS 

rare,  how  lonely  in  our  literature  is  the  beauty 
of  your  sentences !  "  I  can't  express  the  charm 
of  them"  (so  you  write  of  George  Sand;  so  we 
may  write  of  you)  :  "  they  seem  to  me  like  the 
sound  of  country  bells,  provoking  I  don't  know 
what  vein  of  music  and  meditation,  and  falling 
sweetly  and  sadly  on  the  ear."  Surely  that  style, 
so  fresh,  so  rich,  so  full  of  surprises  —  that  style 
which  stamps  as  classical  your  fragments  of  slang, 
and  perpetually  astonishes  and  delights  —  would 
alone  give  immortality  to  an  author,  even  had  he 
little  to  say.  But  you,  with  your  whole  wide  world 
of  fops  and  fools,  of  good  women  and  brave  men, 
of  honest  absurdities  and  cheery  adventurers :  you 
who  created  the  Steynes  and  Newcomes,the  Beckys 
and  Blanches,  Captain  Costigan  and  F.  B.,  and  the 
Chevalier  Strong — all  that  host  of  friends  imper- 
ishable—  you  must  survive  with  Shakspeare  and 
Cervantes  in  the  memory  and  affection  of  men. 


TO    CHARLES   DICKENS 


II 


To  Charles  Dickens 


IR, —  It  has  been  said  that  every  man  is 
born  a  Platonist  or  an  Aristotelian, 
though  the  enormous  majority  of  us,  to 
be  sure,  live  and  die  without  being  con- 
scious of  any  invidious  philosophic  partiality  what- 
ever. With  more  truth  (though  that  does  not  imply 
very  much)  every  Englishman  who  reads  maybe  said 
to  be  a  partisan  of  yourself  or  of  Mr.  Thackeray. 
Why  should  there  be  any  partisanship  in  the  mat- 
ter ;  and  why,  having  two  such  good  things  as  your 
novels  and  those  of  your  contemporary,  should  we 
not  be  silently  happy  in  the  possession?  Well, 
men  are  made  so,  and  must  needs  fight  and  argue 
over  their  tastes  in  enjoyment.  For  myself,  I  may 
say  that  in  this  matter  I  am  what  the  Americans 
do  not  call  a  "  Mugwump,"  what  English  politicians 
dub  a  "  superior  person  " — that  is,  I  take  no  side, 
and  attempt  to  enjoy  the  best  of  both. 


12  LETTERS   TO  DEAD  AUTHORS 

It  must  be  owned  that  this  attitude  is  some- 
times made  a  little  difficult  by  the  vigor  of  your 
special  devotees.  They  have  ceased,  indeed,  thank 
Heaven !  to  imitate  you ;  and  even  in  "descriptive 
articles  "  the  touch  of  Mr.  Gigadibs,  of  him  whom 
"  we  almost  took  for  the  true  Dickens,"  has  disap- 
peared. The  young  lions  of  the  Press  no  longer 
mimic  your  less  admirable  mannerisms  —  do  not 
strain  so  much  after  fantastic  comparisons,  do  not 
(in  your  manner  and  Mr.  Carlyle's)  give  people 
nicknames  derived  from  their  teeth,  or  their  com- 
plexion ;  and,  generally,  we  are  spared  second-hand 
copies  of  all  that  in  your  style  was  least  to  be  com- 
'  mended.  But,  though  improved  by  lapse  of  time 
in  this  respect,  your  devotees  still  put  on  little 
conscious  airs  of  virtue,  robust  manliness,  and  so 
forth,  which  would  have  irritated  you  very  much, 
and  there  survive  some  press  men  who  seem  to 
have  read  you  a  little  (especially  your  later  works), 
and  never  to  have  read  anything  else.  Now, 
familiarity  with  the  pages  of"  Our  Mutual  Friend  " 
and  "  Dombey  and  Son  "  does  not  precisely  con- 
stitute a  liberal  education,  and  the  assumption  that 
it  does  is  apt  (quite  unreasonably)  to  prejudice 
people  against  the  greatest  comic  genius  of  modern 
times. 

On  the  other  hand,  Time  is  at  last  beginning  to 
sift  the  true  admirers  of  Dickens  from  the  false. 
Yours,  Sir,  in  the  best  sense  of  the  word,  is  a 
popular  success,  a  popular  reputation.  For  ex- 
ample, I  know  that,  in  a  remote  and  even  Pictish 


TO   CHARLES  DICKENS  13 

part  of  this  kingdom,  a  rural  household,  humble 
and  under  the  shadow  of  a  sorrow  inevitably 
approaching,  has  found  in  "David  Copperfield" 
oblivion  of  winter,  of  sorrow,  and  of  sickness.  On 
the  other  hand,  people  are  now  picking  up  heart 
to  say  that  "  they  cannot  read  Dickens,"  and  that 
they  particularly  detest  "  Pickwick."  I  believe  it 
was  young  ladies  who  first  had  the  courage  of  their 
convictions  in  this  respect.  "  Tout  sied  aux  belles," 
and  the  fair,  in  the  confidence  of  youth,  often  ven- 
ture on  remarkable  confessions.  In  your  "  Natural 
History  of  Young  Ladies  "  I  do  not  remember  that 
you  describe  the  Humorous  Young  Lady.l  She 
is  a  very  rare  bird  indeed,  and  humor  generally  is  } 
at  a  deplorably  low  level  in  England. 

Hence  come  all  sorts  of  mischief,  arisen  since 
you  left  us;  and  it  may  be  said  that  inordinate 
philanthropy,  genteel  sympathy  with  Irish  mur- 
der and  arson,  Societies  for  Badgering  the  Poor, 
Esoteric  Buddhism,  and  a  score  of  other  plagues, 
including  what  was  once  called  ^Estheticism,  are 
all,  primarily,  due  to  want  of  humor.  People  dis- 
cuss, with  the  gravest  faces,  matters  which  prop- 
erly should  only  be  stated  as  the  wildest  paradoxes. 
It  naturally  follows  that,  in  a  period  almost  desti- 
tute of  humor,  many  respectable  persons  "  cannot 
read  Dickens,"  and  are  not  ashamed  to  glory  in 
their  shame.  We  ought  not  to  be  angry  with 

1 1  aminformedthatthe"  Natural  History  of  Young  Ladies" 
is  attributed  by  some  writers  to  another  philosopher,  the 
author  of  "  The  Art  of  Pluck." 


14  LETTERS   TO  DEAD  AUTHORS 

others  for  their  misfortunes;  and  yet  when  one 
meets  the  cretins  who  boast  that  they  cannot  read 
Dickens,  one  certainly  does  feel  much  as  Mr. 
Samuel  Weller  felt  when  he  encountered  Mr.  Job 
Trotter. 

How  very  singular  has  been  the  history  of  the 
decline  of  humor.  Is  there  any  profound  psycho- 
logical truth  to  be  gathered  from  consideration  of 
the  fact  that  humor  has  gone  out  with  cruelty  ?  A 
hundred  years  ago,  eighty  years  ago  —  nay,  fifty 
years  ago  —  we  were  a  cruel  but  also  a  humorous 
people.  We  had  bull-baitings,  and  badger-draw- 
ings, and  hustings,  and  prize-fights,  and  cock-fights ; 
we  went  to  see  men  hanged ;  the  pillory  and  the 
stocks  were  no  empty  "  terrors  unto  evil-doers,"  for 
there  was  commonly  a  malefactor  occupying  each 
of  these  institutions.  With  all  this  we  had  a  broad- 
blown  comic  sense.  We  had  Hogarth,  and  Bun- 
bury,  and  George  Cruikshank,  and  Gilray ;  we  had 
Leech  and  Surtees,  and  the  creator  of  Tittlebat 
Titmouse ;  we  had  the  Shepherd  of  the  "  Noctes," 
and,  above  all,  we  \&&you. 

XVrom  the  old  giants  of  English  fun — burly  per- 
sons delighting  in  broad  caricature,  in  decided  col- 
ors, in  cockney  jokes,  in  swashing  blows  at  the 
more  prominent  and  obvious  human  follies  —  from 
these  you  derived  the  splendid  high  spirits  and 
unhesitating  mirth  of  your  earlier  works.  Mr. 
Squeers,  and  Sam  Weller,  and  Mrs.  Gamp,  and 
all  the  Pickwickians,  and  Mr.  Dowler,  and  John 
Browdie  —  these  and  their  immortal  companions 


TO  CHARLES  DICKENS  15 

were  reared,  so  to  speak,  on  the  beef  and  beer  of 
that  naughty,  fox-hunting,  badger-baiting  old  Eng- 
land which  we  have  improved  out  of  existence. 
And  these  characters,  assuredly,  are  your  best ;  by 
them,  though  stupid  people  cannot  read  about  them, 
you  will  live  while  there  is  a  laugh  left  among  us. 
Perhaps  that  does  not  assure  you  a  very  prolonged 
existence,  but  only  the  future  can  show.  ^ 

The  dismal  seriousness  of  the  time  cannot,  let  us 
hope,  last  forever  and  a  day.  Honest  old  Laughter, 
the  true  lutin  of  your  inspiration,  must  have  life  left 
in  him  yet,  and  cannot  die ;  though  it  is  true  that 
the  taste  for  your  pathos,  and  your  melodrama,  and 
plots  constructed  after  your  favorite  fashion  ("  Great 
Expectations  "  and  the  "  Tale  of  Two  Cities  "  are 
exceptions)  may  go  by  and  never  be  regretted. 
Were  people  simpler,  or  only  less  clear-sighted,  as 
far  as  your  pathos  is  concerned,  a  generation  ago  ? 
Jeffrey,  the  hard-headed  shallow  critic,  who  de- 
clared that  Wordsworth  "  would  never  do,"  cried, 
"  wept  like  anything,"  over  your  Little  Nell.  One 
still  laughs  as  heartily  as  ever  with  Dick  Swiveller ; 
but  who  can  cry  over  Little  Nell  ? 

Ah,  Sir,  how  could  you  —  who  knew  so  inti- 
mately, who  remembered  so  strangely  well  the 
fancies,  the  dreams,  the  sufferings  of  childhood — 
how  could  you  "wallow  naked  in  the  pathetic," 
and  massacre  holocausts  of  the  Innocents  ?  To 
draw  tears  by  gloating  over  a  child's  death -bed,  was 
it  worthy  of  you  ?  Was  it  the  kind  of  work  over 
which  our  hearts  should  melt  ?  I  confess  that  Little 


16  LETTERS   TO  DEAD  AUTHORS 

Nell  might  die  a  dozen  times,  and  be  welcomed  by 
whole  legions  of  Angels,  and  I  (like  the  bereaved 
fowl  mentioned  by  Pet  Marjory)  would  remain 
unmoved. 

She  was  more  than  usual  calm, 

She  did  not  give  a  single  dam, 

O^CL^UM^ 

wrote  the  astonishing  child  who  diverted  the  lei- 
sure of  Scott.  ^t)ver  your  Little  Nell  and  your 
Little  Dombey  I  remain  more  than  usual  calm; 
and  probably  so  do  thousands  of  your  most  sincere 
admirers.  But  about  matter  of  this  kind,  and  the 
unsealing  of  the  fountains  of  tears,  who  can  argue  ? 
Where  is  taste  ?  where  is  truth  ?  What  tears  are 
" manly,  Sir,  manly,"  as  Fred  Bayham  has  it;  and 
of  what  lamentations  ought  we  rather  to  be 
ashamed?  Sunt  lacrynuz  rerum ;  one  has  been 
moved  in  the  cell  where  Socrates  tasted  the  hem- 
lock; or  by  the  river-banks  where  Syracusan  ar- 
rows slew  the  parched  Athenians  among  the  mire 
and  blood ;  or,  in  fiction,  when  Colonel  Newcome 
said  Adsum,  or  over  the  diary  of  Clare  Doria  Forey, 
or  where  Aramis  laments,  with  strange  tears,  the 
death  of  Porthos.  But  over  Dombey  (the  Son), 
or  Little  Nell,  one  declines  to  snivel. 

When  an  author  deliberately  sits  down  and  says, 
"  Now,  let  us  have  a  good  cry,"  he  poisons  the  wells 
of  sensibility  and  chokes,  at  least  in  many  breasts, 
the  fountain  of  tears.  Out  of  "  Dombey  and  Son  " 
there  is  little  we  care  to  remember  except  the  death- 
less Mr.  Toots  ;ljust  as  we  forget  the  melodra- 


TO   CHARLES  DICKENS  17 

matics  of  "  Martin  Chuzzlewit. "  I  have  read  in  that 
book  a  score  of  times ;  I  never  see  it  but  I  revel 
in  it  —  in  Pecksniff,  and  Mrs.  Gamp,  and  the 
Americans.  But  what  the  plot  is  all  about,  what 
Jonas  did,  what  Montagu  Tigg  had  to  make  in  the 
matter,  what  all  the  pictures  with  plenty  of  shading 
illustrate,  I  have  never  been  able  to  comprehend. 
In  the  same  way  one  of  your  most  thorough-goingv 
admirers  has  allowed  (in  the  license  of  private  con- 
versation) that  "  Ralph  Nickleby  and  Monk  are  too 
steep  "  ;  and  probably  a  cultivated  taste  will  always 
find  them  a  little  precipitous. 

"  Too  steep ;  "  —  t^e  slanp  expresses,  that  defect 
of  an  ardent  genius,  carried  above  itself  and  out 
of  the  air  we  breathe,  both  in  its  grotesque^ajidiii- 
itsglomnjjma^najiDJi3.  To  force  the  note,  to 
press  fantasy  too  hard,  to  deepen  the  gloom  with 
black  over  the  indigo,  that  was  the  failing  which/ 
proved  you  mortal.  To  take  an  instance  in  littler/- 
when Pip  went  to  Mr.  Pumblechook's,  the  boy 
thought  the  seedsman  "  a  very  happy  man  to  have 
so  many  little  drawers  in  his  shop."  The  reflec- 
tion is  thoroughly  boyish ;  but  then  you  add,  "  I 
wondered  whether  the  flower-seeds  and  bulbs  ever 
wanted  of  a  fine  day  to  break  out  of  those  jails  and 
bloom."  That  is  not  boyish  at  all;  that  is  the 
hard-driven,  jaded  literary  fancy  at  work. 

"So  we  arraign  her;  but  she,"  the  Genius  of 
Charles  Dickens,  how  brilliant,  how  kindly,  how 
beneficent  she  is  !  dwelling  by  a  fountain  of  laugh- 
ter imperishable;  though  there  is  something  of  an 


i8  LETTERS   TO  DEAD  AUTHORS 

alien  salt  in  the  neighboring  fountain  of  tears. 
How  poor  the  world  of  fancy  would  be,  how  "  dis- 
peopled of  her  dreams,"  if,  in  some  ruin  of  the 
social  system,  the  books  of  Dickens  were  lost; 
and  if  The  Dodger,  and  Charley  Bates,  and  Mr. 
Crinkle,  and  Miss  Squeers,  and  Sam  Weller,  and 
Mrs.  Gamp,  and  Dick  Swiveller  were  to  perish,  or 
to  vanish  with  Menander's  men  and  women  !  We 
cannot  think  of  our  world  without  them ;  and, 
children  of  dreams  as  they  are,  they  seem  more 
essential  than  great  statesmen,  artists,  soldiers, 
who  have  actually  worn  flesh  and  blood,  ribbons 
and  orders,  gowns  and  uniforms.  May  we  not 
almost  welcome  "  Free  Education  "  ?  for  every 
Englishman  who  can  read,  unless  he  be  an  Ass, 
is  a  reader  the  more  for  you. 


TO   PIERRE   DE   RONSARD 


£AUFO 


Ill 


To  Pierre  de  Ronsard 


(PRINCE  OF  POETS) 

ASTER  AND  PRINCE  OF  POETS,— 
As  we  know  what  choice  thou  madest 
of  a  sepulchre  (a  choice  how  ill  ful- 
filled by  the  jealousy  of  Fate),  so  we 
know  well  the  manner  of  thy  chosen  immortality. 
In  the  Plains  Elysian,  among  the  heroes  and  the 
ladies  of  old  song,  there  was  thy  Love  with  thee 
to  enjoy  her  paradise  in  an  eternal  spring. 

La  du  plaisant  Avril  la  saison  immortelle 

Sans  eschange  le  suit, 
La  terre  sans  labeur,  de  sa  grasse  mamelle, 

Toute  chose  y  produit ; 
D'enbas  la  troupe  sainte  autrefois  amoureuse, 

Nous  honorant  sur  tous, 
Viendra  nous  saluer,  s'estimant  bien-heureuse 

De  s'accointer  de  nous. 


22  LETTERS   TO  DEAD  AUTHORS 

There  thou  dwellest,  with  the  learned  lovers  of 
old  days,  with  Belleau,  and  Du  Bellay,  and  Baif, 
and  the  flower  of  the  maidens  of  Anjou.  Surely 
no  rumor  reaches  thee,  in  that  happy  place  of 
reconciled  affections,  no  rumor  of  the  rudeness  of 
Time,  the  despite  of  men,  and  the  change  which 
stole  from  thy  locks,  so  early  gray,  the  crown  of 
laurels  and  of  thine  own  roses.  How  different 
from  thy  choice  of  a  sepulchre  have  been  the  for- 
tunes of  thy  tomb ! 

I  will  that  none  should  break 
The  marble  for  my  sake, 
Wishful  to  make  more  fair 
My  sepulchre ! 

So  didst  thou  sing,  or  so  thy  sweet  numbers  run 
in  my  rude  English.  Wearied  of  Courts  and  of 
priories,  thou  didst  desire  a  grave  beside  thine  own 
Loire,  not  remote  from 

The  caves,  the  founts  that  fall 
From  the  high  mountain  wall, 
That  fall  and  flash  and  fleet, 
With  silver  feet. 

Only  a  laurel  tree 
Shall  guard  the  grave  of  me ; 
Only  Apollo's  bough 
Shall  shade  me  now ! 

Far  other  has  been  thy  sepulchre :  not  in  the  free 
air,  among  the  field  flowers,  but  in  thy  priory  of 
Saint  Cos  me,  with  marble  for  a  monument,  and  no 


TO  PIERRE  DE  RON  SARD  23 

green  grass  to  cover  thee.  Restless  wert  thou  in 
thy  life ;  thy  dust  was  not  to  be  restful  in  thy  death. 
The  Huguenots,  ces  nouveaux  Chretiens  qiii  la 
France  ont  pillee,  destroyed  thy  tomb,  and  the 
warning  of  the  later  monument, 

ABI,  NEFASTE,  QUAM  CALCAS  HUMUM  SACRA  EST, 

has  not  scared  away  malicious  men.  The  storm 
that  passed  over  France  a  hundred  years  ago,  more 
terrible  than  the  religious  wars  that  thou  didst 
weep  for,  has  swept  the  column  from  the  tomb. 
The  marble  was  broken  by  violent  hands,  and  the 
shattered  sepulchre  of  the  Prince  of  Poets  gained 
a  dusty  hospitality  from  the  museum  of  a  country 
town.  Better  had  been  the  laurel  of  thy  desire, 
the  creeping  vine,  and  the  ivy  tree. 

Scarce  more  fortunate,  for  long,  than  thy  monu- 
ment was  thy  memory.  Thou  hast  not  er^poun- 
tered,  Master,  in  the  Paradise  of  Poets,  Messieurs 
Malherbe,  De  Balzac,  and  Boileau  —  Boileau  who 
spoke  of  thee  as  Ce  poete  orgueilleux  trebuche  de  si 
haul! 

These  gallant  gentlemen,  I  make  no  doubt,  are 
happy  after  their  own  fashion,  backbiting  each 
other  and  thee  in  the  Paradise  of  Critics.  In  their 
time  they  wrought  thee  much  evil,  grumbling  that 
thou  wrotest  in  Greek  and  Latin  (of  which  tongues 
certain  of  them  had  but  little  skill),  and  blaming 
thy  many  lyric  melodies  and  the  free  flow  of  thy 
lines.  What  said  M.  de  Balzac  to  M.  Chapelain? 


24  LETTERS   TO  DEAD  AUTHORS 

"M.  de  Malherbe,  M.  de  Grasse,  and  yourself  must 
be  very  little  poets,  if  Ronsard  be  a  great  one." 
Time  has  brought  in  his  revenges,  and  Mes- 
sieurs Chapelain  and  De  Grasse  are  as  well  forgot- 
ten as  thou  art  well  remembered.  Men  eould  not 
always  be  deaf  to  thy  sweet  old  songs,  nor  blind 
to  the  beauty  of  thy  roses  and  thy  loves.  When 
they  took  the  wax  out  of  their  ears  that  M.  Boileau 
had  given  them  lest  they  should  hear  the  singing  of 
thy  Sirens,  then  they  were  deaf  no  longer,  then  they 
heard  the  old  deaf  poet  singing  and  made  answer 
to  his  lays.  Hast  thou  not  heard  these  sounds  ? 
have  they  not  reached  thee,  the  voices  and  the 
lyres  of  Theophile  Gautier  and  Alfred  de  Musset  ? 
Methinks  thou  hast  marked  them,  and  been  glad 
that  the  old  notes  were  ringing  again,  and  the  old 
French  lyric  measures  tripping  to  thine  ancient 
harmonies,  echoing  and  replying  to  the  Muses 
of  Horace  and  Catullus.  Returning  to  Nature, 
poets  returned  to  thee.  Thy  monument  has  per- 
ished, but  not  thy  music,  and  the  Prince  of  Poets 
has  returned  to  his  own  again  in  a  glorious  Res- 
toration. 

,  Through  the  dust  and  smoke  of  ages,  and  through 
'  the  centuries  of  wars,  we  strain  our  eyes,  and  try 
to  gain  a  glimpse  of  thee,  Master,  in  thy  good 
days,  when  the  Muses  walked  with  thee.  We 
seem  to  mark  thee  wandering  silent  through  some 
little  village,  or  dreaming  in  the  woods,  or  loiter- 
ing among  thy  lonely  places,  or  in  gardens  where 
the  roses  blossom  among  wilder  flowers,  or  on 


TO  PIERRE  DE  RONSARD  25 

river-banks  where  the  whispering  poplars  and 
sighing  reeds  make  answer  to  the  murmur  of  the 
waters.  Such  a  picture  hast  thou  drawn  of  thyself 
in  the  summer  afternoons. 

Je  m'en  vais  pourmener  tantost  parmy  la  plaine, 
Tantost  en  un  village,  et  tantost  en  un  bois, 
Et  tantost  par  les  lieux  solitaires  et  cois. 
J'aime  fort  les  jardins  qui  sentent  le  sauvage, 
J'aime  le  flot  de  1'eau  qui  gazoiiille  au  rivage. 

Still,  methinks,  there  was  a  book  in  the  hand  of 
the  grave  and  learned  poet;  still  thou  wouldst 
carry  thy  Horace,  thy  Catullus,  thy  Theocritus, 
through  the  gem-like  weather  of  the  Renouveau, 
when  the  woods  were  enamelled  with  flowers, 
and  the  young  Spring  was  lodged,  like  a  wander- 
ing prince,  in  his  great  palaces  hung  with  green: 

Orgueilleux  de  ses  fleurs,  enfle"  de  sa  jeunesse, 
Loge  comme  un  grand  Prince  en  ses  vertes  maisons  ! 

Thou  sawest,  in  these  woods  by  Loire  side,  the 
fair  shapes  of  old  religion,  Fauns,  Nymphs,  and 
Satyrs,  and  heard'st  in  the  nightingale's  music 
the  plaint  of  Philomel.  The  ancient  poets  came 
back  in  the  train  of  thyself  and  of  the  Spring,  and 
learning  was  scarce  less  dear  to  thee  than  love ; 
and  thy  ladies  seemed  fairer  for  the  names  they 
borrowed  from  the  beauties  of  forgotten  days, 
Helen  and  Cassandra.  How  sweetly  didst  thou 
sing  to  them  thine  old  morality,  and  how  gravely 


26  LETTERS   TO  DEAD  AUTHORS 

didst  thou  teach  the  lesson  of  the  Roses  !  Well 
didst  thou  know  it,  well  didst  thou  love  the  Rose, 
since  thy  nurse,  carrying  thee,  an  infant,  to  the 
holy  font,  let  fall  on  thee  the  sacred  water 
brimmed  with  floating  blossoms  of  the  Rose ! 

Mignonne,  aliens  voir  si  la  Rose, 
Qui  ce  matin  avoit  desclose 
Sa  robe  de  pourpre  au  soleil, 
A  point  perdu  ceste  vespree 
Les  plis  de  sa  robe  pourpree, 
Et  son  teint  au  votre  pareil. 

And  again, 

/  La  belle  Rose  du  Printemps, 

Aubert,  admoneste  les  hommes 
Passer  joyeusement  le  temps, 
Et  pendant  que  jeunes  nous  sommes, 
Esbattre  la  fleur  de  nos  ans. 

In  the  same  mood,  looking  far  down  the  future, 
thou  sangest  of  thy  lady's  age,  the  most  sad,  the 
most  beautiful  of  thy  sad  and  beautiful  lays ;  for 
if  thy  bees  gathered  much  honey,  't  was  somewhat 
bitter  to  taste,  as  that  of  the  Sardinian  yews. 
How  clearly  we  see  the  great  hall,  the  gray  lady 
spinning  and  humming  among  her  drowsy  maids, 
and  how  they  waken  at  the  word,  and  she  sees 
her  spring  in  their  eyes,  and  they  forecast  their 
winter  in  her  face,  when  she  murmurs,  "  'T  was 
Ronsard  sang  of  me." 


TO  PIERRE  DE  RON  SARD  27 

Winter,  and  summer,  and  spring,  how  swiftly 
they  pass,  and  how  early  time  brought  thee  his 
sorrows,  and  grief  cast  her  dust  upon  thy  head. 

Adieu  ma  Lyre,  adieu  fillettes, 
Jadis  mes  douces  amourettes, 
Adieu,  je  sens  venir  ma  fin, 
Nul  passetemps  de  ma  jeunesse 
Ne  m'accompagne  en  la  vieillesse, 
Que  le  feu,  le  lict  et  le  vin. 

Wine,  and  a  soft  bed,  and  a  bright  fire :  to  this 
trinity  of  poor  pleasures  we  come  soon,  if,  indeed, 
wine  be  left  to  us.  Poetry  herself  deserts  us ;  is 
it  not  said  that  Bacchus  never  forgives  a  rene- 
gade? and  most  of  us  turn  recreants  to  Bacchus,  i 
Even  the  bright  fire,  I  fear,  was  not  always  there  j 
to  warm  thine  old  blood,  Master,  or,  if  fire  there 
were,  the  wood  was  not  bought  with  thy  book- 
seller's money.  When  autumn  was  drawing  in 
during  thine  early  old  age,  in  1584,  didst  thou  not 
write  that  thou  hadst  never  received  a  sou  at  the 
hands  of  all  the  publishers  who  vended  thy 
books?  And  as  thou  wert  about  putting  forth 
thy  folio  edition  of  1584,  thou  didst  pray  Buon, 
the  bookseller,  to  give  thee  sixty  crowns  to  buy 
wood  withal,  and  make  thee  a  bright  fire  in 
winter  weather,  and  comfort  thine  old  age  with 
thy  friend  Gallandius.  And  if  Buon  will  not  pay, 
then  to  try  the  other  booksellers,  "that  wish  to 
take  everything  and  give  nothing." 

Was  it  knowledge  of  this  passage,  Master,  or 


28  LETTERS   TO  DEAD  AUTHORS 

ignorance  of  everything  else,  that  made  certain  of 
the  common  steadfast  dunces  of  our  days  speak  of 
thee  as  if  thou  hadst  been  a  starveling,  neglected 
poetaster,  jealous,  forsooth,  of  Maitre  Fran£oys 
Rabelais?  See  how  ignorantly  M.  Fleury  writes, 
who  teaches  French  literature  withal  to  them  of 
Muscovy,  and  hath  indited  a  Life  of  Rabelais. 
"  Rabelais  etait  revetu  d'un  emploi  honorable ; 
Ronsard  etait  traite  en  subalterne,"  quoth  this 
wondrous  professor.  What !  Pierre  de  Ronsard, 
a  gentleman  of  a  noble  house,  holding  the  revenue 
of  many  abbeys,  the  friend  of  Mary  Stuart,  of  the 
Due  d'Orleans,  of  Charles  IX.,  he  is  traite  en  sub- 
alterne, and  is  jealous  of  a  frocked  or  unfrocked 
manant  like  Maitre  Fran£oys !  And  then  this 
amazing  Fleury  falls  foul  of  thine  epitaph  on 
Maitre  Fran9oys  and  cries,  "  Ronsard  a  voulu  faire 
des  vers  mechants;  il  n'a  fait  que  de  mediants 
vers."  More  truly  saith  M.  Sainte-Beuve,  "If  the 
good  Rabelais  had  returned  to  Meudon  on  the 
day  when  this  epitaph  was  made  over  the  wine, 
he  would,  methinks,  have  laughed  heartily."  But 
what  shall  be  said  of  a  Professor  like  the  egregious 
M.  Fleury,  who  holds  that  Ronsard  was  despised 
at  Court?  Was  there  a  party  at  tennis  when  the 
king  would  not  fain  have  had  thee  on  his  side,  de- 
claring that  he  ever  won  when  Ronsard  \\tes  his 
partner?  Did  he  not  give  thee  benefices,  and 
many  priories,  and  call  thee  his  father  in  Apollo, 
and  even,  so  they  say,  bid  thee  sit  down  beside 
him  on  his  throne?  Away,  ye  scandalous  folk, 


TO  PIERRE  DE  RON  SARD  29 

who  tell  us  that  there  was  strife  between  the  Prince 
of  Poets  and  the  King  of  Mirth.  Naught  have 
ye  by  way  of  proof  of  your  slander  but  the  talk  of 
Jean  Bernier,  a  scurrilous,  starveling  apothecary, 
who  put  forth  his  fables  in  1697,  a  century  and  a 
half  after  Maitre  Frangoys  died.  Bayle  quoted 
this  fellow  in  a  note,  and  ye  all  steal  the  tattle  one 
from  another  in  your  dull  manner,  and  know  not 
whence  it  comes,  nor  even  that  Bayle  would  none 
of  it  and  mocked  its  author.  With  so  little  know- 
ledge is  history  written,  and  thus  doth  each  chat- 
tering brook  of  a  "Life"  swell  with  its  tribute 
"  that  great  Mississippi  of  falsehood/'  Biography. 


TO  HERODOTUS 


IV 

To  Herodotus 

HO  Herodotus  of  Halicarnassus,  greet- 
ing. Concerning  the  matters  set  forth 
in  your  histories,  and  the  tales  you  tell 
about  both  Greeks  and  Barbarians, 
whether  they  be  true,  or  whether  they  be  false, 
men  dispute  not  little  but  a  great  deal.  Where- 
fore I,  being  concerned  to  know  the  verity,  did  set 
forth  to  make  search  in  every  manner,  and  came 
in  my  quest  even  unto  the  ends  of  the  earth.  For 
there  is  an  island  of  the  Cimmerians  beyond  the 
Straits  of  Heracles,  some  three  days'  voyage  to  a 
ship  that  hath  a  fair  following  wind  in  her  sails ; 
and  there  it  is  said  that  men  know  many  things 
from  of  old:  thither,  then,  I  came  in  my  inquiry. 
Now,  the  island  is  not  small,  but  large,  greater 
than  the  whole  of  Hellas ;  and  they  call  it  Britain. 
In  that  island  the  east  wind  blows  for  ten  parts  of 
33 


34  LETTERS   TO  DEAD  AUTHORS 

the  year,  and  the  people  know  not  how  to  cover 
themselves  from  the  cold.  But  for  the  other  two 
months  of  the  year  the  sun  shines  fiercely,  so  that 
some  of  them  die  thereof,  and  others  die  of  the 
frozen  mixed  drinks ;  for  they  have  ice  even  in  the 
summer,  and  this  ice  they  put  to  their  liquor. 
Through  the  whole  of  this  island,  from  the  west 
even  to  the  east,  there  flows  a  river  called  Thames : 
a  great  river  and  a  laborious,  but  not  to  be  likened 
to  the  River  of  Egypt. 

The  mouth  of  this  river,  where  I  stepped  out 
from  my  ship,  is  exceedingly  foul  and  of  an  evil 
savor  by  reason  of  the  city  on  the  banks.  Now 
this  city  is  several  hundred  parasangs  in  circum- 
ference. Yet  a  man  that  needed  not  to  breathe 
the  air  might  go  round  it  in  one  hour,  in  chariots 
that  run  under  the  earth;  and  these  chariots  are 
drawn  by  creatures  that  breathe  smoke  and  sul- 
phur, such  as  Orpheus  mentions  in  his  "  Argo- 
nautica,"  if  it  be  by  Orpheus.  The  people  of  the 
town,  when  I  inquired  of  them  concerning  Herod- 
otus of  Halicarnassus,  looked  on  me  with  amaze- 
ment and  went  straightway  about  their  business, — 
namely,  to  seek  out  whatsoever  new  thing  is  coming 
to  pass  all  over  the  whole  inhabited  world,  and  as 
for  things  old,  they  take  no  keep  of  them. 

Nevertheless,  by  diligence  I  learned  that  he  who 
in  this  land  knew  most  concerning  Herodotus  was 
a  priest,  and  dwelt  in  the  priests'  city  on  the  river 
which  is  called  the  City  of  the  Ford  of  the  Ox. 
But  whether  lo,  when  she  wore  a  cow's  shape. 


TO  HERODOTUS  35 

had  passed  by  that  way  in  her  wanderings,  and 
thence  comes  the  name  of  that  city,  I  could  not 
(though  I  asked  all  men  I  met)  learn  aught  with 
certainty.  But  to  me,  considering  this,  it  seemed 
that  lo  must  have  come  thither.  And  now  fare- 
well to  lo. 

To  the  City  of  the  Priests  there  are  two  roads  : 
one  by  land;  and  one  by  water,  following  the 
river.  To  a  well-girdled  man,  the  land  journey  is 
but  one  day's  travel ;  by  the  river  it  is  longer  but 
more  pleasant.  Now  that  river  flows,  as  I  said, 
from  the  west  to  the  east.  And  there  is  in  it  a 
fish  called  chub,  which  they  catch  ;  but  they  do  not 
eat  it,  for  a  certain  sacred  reason.  Also  there  is 
a  fish  called  trout,  and  this  is  the  manner  of  his 
catching.  They  build  for  this  purpose  great  dams 
of  wood,  which  they  call  weirs.  Having  built  the 
weir,  they  sit  upon  it  with  rods  in  their  hands,  and 
a  line  on  the  rod,  and  at  the  end  of  the  line  a  little 
fish.  There  then  they  "  sit  and  spin  in  the  sun," 
as  one  of  their  poets  says,  not  for  a  short  time  but 
for  many  days,  having  rods  in  their  hands  and  eat- 
ing and  drinking.  In  this  wise  they  angle  for  the 
fish  called  trout ;  but  whether  they  ever  catch  him 
or  not,  not  having  seen  it,  I  cannot  say ;  for  it  is 
not  pleasant  to  me  to  speak  things  concerning 
which  I  know  not  the  truth. 

Now,  after  sailing  and  rowing  against  the  stream 
for  certain  days,  I  came  to  the  City  of  the  Ford 
of  the  Ox.  Here  the  river  changes  his  name,  and 
is  called  Isis,  after  the  name  of  the  goddess  of  the 


36  LETTERS   TO  DEAD  AUTHORS 

Egyptians.  But  whether  the  Britons  brought  the 
name  from  Egypt  or  whether  the  E|^tians  took  it 
from  the  Britons,  not  knowing  I  pn^^Biot  to  say. 
But  to  me  it  seems  that  the  Britonsare  a  colony 
of  the  Egyptians,  or  the  Egyptians  a  colony  of  the 
Britons.  Moreover,  when  I  was  in  Egypt  I  saw 
certain  soldiers  in  white  helmets,  who  were  cer- 
tainly British.  But  what  they  did  there  (as  Egypt 
neither  belongs  to  Britain  nor  Britain  to  Egypt)  I 
know  not,  neither  could  they  tell  me.  But  one 
of  them  replied  to  me  in  that  line  of  Homer  (if  the 
Odyssey  be  Homer's),  "  We  have  come  to  a  sorry 
Cyprus,  and  a  sad  Egypt."  Others  told  me  that 
they  once  marched  against  the  Ethiopians,  and 
having  defeated  them  several  times,  then  came 
back  again,  leaving  their  property  to  the  Ethio- 
pians. But  as  to  the  truth  of  this  I  leave  it  to 
every  man  to  form  his  own  opinion. 

Having  come  into  the  City  of  the  Priests,  I 
went  forth  into  the  street,  and  found  a  priest  of 
the  baser  sort,  who  for  a  piece  of  silver  led  me 
hither  and  thither  among  the  temples,  discoursing 
of  many  things. 

Now  it  seemed  to  me  a  strange  thing  that  the 
city  was  empty,  and  no  man  dwelling  therein, 
save  a  few  priests  only,  and  their  wives,  and  their 
children,  who  are  drawn  to  and  fro  in  little 
carriages  dragged  by  women.  But  the  priest 
told  me  that  during  half  the  year  the  city  was 
desolate,  for  that  there  came  somewhat  called 
"The  Long,"  or  "The  Vac,"  and  drave  out  the 


TO  HERODOTUS  37 

young  priests.  And  he  said  that  these  did  no 
other  thing  but  row  boats,  and  throw  balls  from 
one  to  the  other,  and  this  they  were  made  to  do, 
he  said,  that  the  young  priests  might  learn  to  be 
humble,  for  they  are  the  proudest  of  men.  But 
whether  he  spoke  truth  or  not  I  know  not,  only 
I  set  down  what  he  told  me.  But  to  any  one  con- 
sidering it,  this  appears  rather  to  jump  with  his 
story, —  namely,  that  the  young  priests  have 
houses  on  the  river,  painted  of  divers  colors,  all 
of  them  empty. 

Then  the  priest,  at  my  desire,  brought  me  to 
one  of  the  temples,  that  I  might  seek  out  all 
things  concerning  Herodotus  the  Halicarnassian, 
from  one  who  knew.  Now  this  temple  is  not  the 
fairest  in  the  city,  but  less  fair  and  goodly  than 
the  old  temples,  yet  goodlier  and  more  fair  than 
the  new  temples ;  and  over  the  roof  there  is  the 
image  of  an  eagle  made  of  stone  —  no  small 
marvel,  but  a  great  one,  how  men  came  to  fashion 
him;  and  that  temple  is  called  the  House  of 
Queens.  Here  they  sacrifice  a  boar  once  every 
year;  and  concerning  this  they  tell  a  certain 
sacred  story  which  I  know  but  will  not  utter. 

Then  I  was  brought  to  the  priest  who  had  a 
name  for  knowing  most  about  Egypt  and  the 
Egyptians,  and  the  Assyrians,  and  the  Cappado- 
cians,  and  all  the  kingdoms  of  the  Great  King.  He 
came  out  to  me,  being  attired  in  a  black  robe,  and 
wearing  on  his  head  a  square  cap.  But  why  the 
priests  have  square  caps  I  know,  and  he  who  has 


38  LETTERS   TO  DEAD  AUTHORS 

been  initiated  into  the  mysteries  which  they  call 
"Matric"  knows,  but  I  prefer  not  to  tell.  Con- 
cerning the  square  cap,  then,  let  this  be  suffi- 
cient. Now,  the  priest  received  me  courteously, 
and  when  I  asked  him,  concerning  Herodotus, 
whether  he  were  a  true  man  or  not,  he  smiled, 
and  answered,  "  Abu  Goosh,"  which,  in  the 
tongue  of  the  Arabians,  means,  "The  Father  of 
Liars."  Then  he  went  on  to  speak  concerning 
Herodotus,  and  he  said  in  his  discourse  that 
Herodotus  not  only  told  the  thing  which  was  not, 
but  that  he  did  so  wilfully,  as  one  knowing  the 
truth  but  concealing  it.  For  example,  quoth  he, 
"  Solon  never  went  to  see  Crcesus,  as  Herodotus 
avers ;  nor  did  those  about  Xerxes  ever  dream 
dreams ;  but  Herodotus,  out  of  his  abundant 
wickedness,  invented  these  things. 

"  Now  behold,"  he  went  on,  "  how  the  curse 
of  the  Gods  falls  upon  Herodotus.  For  he  pre- 
tends that  he  saw  Cadmeian  inscriptions  at 
Thebes.  Now  I  do  not  believe  there  were  any 
Cadmeian  inscriptions  there:  therefore  Herod- 
otus is  most  manifestly  lying.  Moreover,  this 
Herodotus  never  speaks  of  Sophocles  the  Athe- 
nian, and  why  not  ?  Because  he,  being  a  child 
at  school,  did  not  learn  Sophocles  by  heart:  for 
the  tragedies  of  Sophocles  could  not  have  been 
learned  at  school  before  they  were  written,  nor 
can  any  man  quote  a  poet  whom  he  never  learned 
at  school.  Moreover,  as  all  those  about  Herod- 
otus knew  Sophocles  well,  he  could  not  appear 


TO  HERODOTUS  39 

to  them  to  be  learned  by  showing  that  he  knew 
what  they  knew  also."  Then  I  thought  the 
priest  was  making  game  and  sport,  saying  first 
that  Herodotus  could  know  no  poet  whom  he  had 
not  learned  at  school,  and  then  saying  that  all  the 
men  of  his  time  well  knew  this  poet,  "about  whom 
every  one  was  talking."  But  the  priest  seemed 
not  to  know  that  Herodotus  and  Sophocles  were 
friends,  which  is  proved  by  this,  that  Sophocles 
wrote  an  ode  in  praise  of  Herodotus. 

Then  he  went  on,  and  though  I  were  to  write 
with  a  hundred  hands  (like  Briareus,  of  whom 
Homer  makes  mention)  I  could  not  tell  you  all 
the  things  that  the  priest  said  against  Herodotus, 
speaking  truly,  or  not  truly,  or  sometimes  cor- 
rectly and  sometimes  not,  as  often  befalls  mortal 
men.  For  Herodotus,  he  said,  was  chiefly  con- 
cerned to  steal  the  lore  of  those  who  came  before 
him,  such  as  Hecataeus,  and  then  to  escape  notice 
as  having  stolen  it.  Also  he  said  that,  being  him- 
self cunning  and  deceitful,  Herodotus  was  easily 
beguiled  by  the  cunning  of  others,  and  believed 
in  things  manifestly  false,  such  as  the  story  of  the 
Phoenix-bird. 

Then  I  spoke  and  said  that  Herodotus  himself 
declared  that  he  could  not  believe  that  story;  but 
the  priest  regarded  me  not.  And  he  said  that 
Herodotus  had  never  caught  a  crocodile  with  cold 
pig,  nor  did  he  ever  visit  Assyria,  nor  Babylon, 
nor  Elephantine ;  but,  saying  that  he  had  been  in 
these  lands,  said  that  which  was  not  true.  He 


40  LETTERS   TO  DEAD  AUTHORS 

also  declared  that  Herodotus,  when  he  travelled, 
knew  none  of  the  Fat  Ones  of  the  Egyptians,  but 
only  those  of  the  baser  sort.  And  he  called  He- 
rodotus a  thief  and  a  beguiler,  and  "  the  same  with 
intent  to  deceive,"  as  one  of  their  own  poets  writes. 
And,  to  be  short,  Herodotus,  I  could  not  tell  you 
in  one  day  all  the  charges  which  are  now  brought 
against  you;  but  concerning  the  truth  of  these 
things,  you  know,  not  least,  but  most,  as  to  your- 
self being  guilty  or  innocent.  Wherefore,  if  you 
have  anything  to  show  or  set  forth  whereby  you 
may  be  relieved  from  the  burden  of  these  accusa- 
tions, now  is  the  time.  Be  no  longer  silent ;  but, 
whether  through  the  Oracle  of  the  Dead,  or  the 
Oracle  of  Branchidse,  or  that  in  Delphi,  or  Dodona, 
or  of  Amphiaraus  at  Oropus,  speak  to  your  friends 
and  lovers  (whereof  I  am  one  from  of  old)  and  let 
men  know  the  very  truth. 

Now,  concerning  the  priests  in  the  City  of  the 
Ford  of  the  Ox,  it  is  to  be  said  that  of  all  men  whom 
we  know  they  receive  strangers  most  gladly,  feast- 
ing them  all  day.  Moreover,  they  have  many 
drinks,  cunningly  mixed,  and  of  these  the  best  is 
that  they  call  Archdeacon,  naming  it  from  one  of 
the  priests'  offices.  Truly,  as  Homer  says  (if  the 
Odyssey  be  Homer's),"  when  that  draught  is  poured 
into  the  bowl  then  it  is  no  pleasure  to  refrain." 

Drinking  of  this  wine,  or  nectar,  Herodotus,  I 
pledge  you,  and  pour  forth  some  deal  on  the  ground, 
to  Herodotus  of  Halicarnassus,  in  the  House  of 
Hades. 


TO  HERODOTUS  41 

And  I  wish  you  farewell,  and  good  be  with  you. 
Whether  the  priest  spoke  truly,  or  not  truly,  even 
so  may  such  good  things  betide  you  as  befall  dead 


EPISTLE  TO 
MR.  ALEXANDER    POPE 


Epistle  to  Mr.  Alexander  Pope 


ROM   mortal  Gratitude,  decide,  my 

Pope, 
Have  Wits  Immortal  more  to  fear  or 

hope? 

Wits  toil  and  travail  round  the  Plant  of  Fame, 
Their  Works  its  Garden ,  and  its  Grow  th  their  Aim , 
Then  Commentators,  in  unwieldly  Dance, 
Break  down  the  Barriers  of  the  trim  Pleasance, 
Pursue  the  Poet,  like  Actseon's  Hounds, 
Beyond  the  fences  of  his  Garden  Grounds, 
Rendfrom  the  singing  Robes  each  borrowed  Gem, 
Rend  from  the  laurePd  Brows  the  Diadem, 
And,  if  one  Rag  of  Character  they  spare, 
Comes  the  Biographer,  and  strips  it  bare ! 

Such,  Pope,  has  been   thy  Fortune,  such   thy 

Doom. 

Swift  the  Ghouls  gathered  at  the  Poet's  Tomb, 
45 


46  LETTERS   TO  DEAD  AUTHORS 

With  Dust  of  Notes  to  clog  each  lordly  Line, 
Warburton,  Warton,  Croker,  Bowles,  combine  ! 
Collecting  Cackle,  Johnson  condescends 
To  interview  the  Drudges  of  your  Friends. 
Though  still  your  Courthope  holds  your  merits 

high, 

And  still  proclaims  your  Poems  Poetry, 
Biographers,  un-Boswell-like,  have  sneered, 
And  Dunces  edit  him  whom  Dunces  feared ! 

They  say;   what  say  they?     Not  in  vain  You 

ask. 

To  tell  you  what  they  say,  behold  my  Task  ! 
"Methinks  already  I  your  Tears  survey" 
As  I  repeat  "the  horrid  Things  they  say."  l 

Comes  El — n  first:   I  fancy  you  '11  agree 
Not  frenzied  Dennis  smote  so  fell  as  he ; 
For  El — n's  Introduction,  crabbed  and  dry, 
Like  Churchill's  Cudgel  's  2  marked  with  Lie, 
and  Lie  ! 

"  Too  dull  to  know  what  his  own  System  meant,  I 
Pope  yet  was  skilled  new  Treasons  to  invent ; 
A   Snake    that   puffed   himself  and  stung  his 

Friends, 

Few  Lied  so  frequent,  for  such  little  Ends ; 
His  mind,  like  Flesh  inflamed,3  was  raw  and  sore, 
And  still,  the  more  he  writhed,  he  stung  the  more ! 

l  "Rape  of  the  Lock." 

2  In  Mr.  Hogarth's  "  Caricatura. " 

3  Elwin's  u  Pope,"  ii.  15. 


EPISTLE   TO  MR.  ALEXANDER  POPE     47 

Oft  in  a  Quarrel,  never  in  the  Right, 
His  Spirit  sank  when  he  was  called  to  fight. 
Pope,  in  the  Darkness  mining  like  a  Mole, 
Forged  on  Himself,  as  from  Himself  he  stole, 
And  what  for  Caryll  once  he  feigned  to  feel, 
Transferred,  in  Letters  never  sent,  to  Steele! 
Still  he  denied  the  Letters  he  had  writ, 
And  still  mistook  Indecency  for  Wit.    v 
His  very  Grammar,  so  De  Quincey  cries, 
'  Detains  the  Reader,  and  at  times  defies  ! '" 

Fierce  El — n  thus :  no  Line  escapes  his  Rage, 
And   furious    Foot-notes    growl    'neath    every 

Page: 

See  St-ph-n  next  take  up  the  vvoful  Tale, 
Prolong  the  Preaching,  and  protract  the  Wail ! 
'*  Some  forage  Falsehoods  from  the  North   and 

South, 
But   Pope,   poor  D 1,   lied   from   Hand   to 

Mouth;! 

Affected,  hypocritical,  and  vain, 
A  Book  in  Breeches,  and  a  Fop  in  Grain ; 
A  Fox  that  found  not  the  high  Clusters  sour, 
The  Fanfaron  of  Vice  beyond  his  power, 
Pope  yet  possessed  " — (the  Praise  will  make  you 

start) — 

"  Mean,  morbid,  vain,  he  yet  possessed  a  Heart ! 
And  still  we  marvel  at  the  Man,  and  still  V 
Admire  his  Finish,  and  applaud  his  Skill :  1 

1  "Poor  Pope  was  always  a  hand-to-mouth  liar." 
— "  Pope,"  by  Leslie  Stephen,  139. 


48  LETTERS   TO  DEAD  AUTHORS 

Though,  as  that  fabled  Bark,  a  phantom  Form, 
Eternal  strains,  nor  rounds  the  Cape  of  Storm, 
Even  so  Pope  strove,  nor  ever  crossed  the 

Line 
That  from  the  Noble  separates  the  Fine !  " 

The  Learned  thus,  and  who  can  quite  reply, 
Reverse  the  Judgment,  and  Retort  the  Lie  ? 
You  reap,  in  armed  Hates  that  haunt  Your  name, 
Reap  what  you  sowed,  the  Dragon's  Teeth  of 

Fame  : 

You  could  not  write,  and  from  unenvious  Time 
Expect  the  Wreath  that  crowns  the  lofty  Rhyme, 
You  still  must  fight,  retreat,  attack,  defend, 
And  oft,  to  snatch  a  Laurel,  lose  a  Friend  ! 
The  Pity  of  it !  And  the  changing  Taste 
Of  changing  Time  leaves   half  your  Work   a 

Waste ! 

My  Childhood  fled  your  couplet's  clarion  tone, 
And  sought  for  Homer  in  the  Prose  of  Bohn. 
Still  through  the  Dust  of  that  dim  Prose  appears 
The  Flight  of  Arrows  and  the  Sheen  of  Spears ; 
Still  we  may  trace  what  Hearts  heroic  feel, 
And  hear  the  Bronze  that  hurtles  on  the  Steel! 
But,  ah,  your  Iliad  seems  a  half-pretence, 
Where  Wits,  not  Heroes,  prove  their  Skill  in 

Fence, 

And  great  Achilles'  Eloquence  doth  show 
As  if  no  Centaur  trained  him,  but  Boileau  ! 
Again,  your  Verse  is  orderly, —  and  more, — 
"  The  Waves  behind  impel  the  Waves  before;  " 


EPISTLE   TO  MR.  ALEXANDER  POPE 


49 


Monotonously  musical  they  glide, 

Till  Couplet  unto  Couplet  hath  replied. 

But  turn  to  Homer  !     How  his  Verses  sweep  ! 

Surge  answers   Surge  and  Deep  doth  call  on 

Deep; 

This  Line  in  Foam  and  Thunder  issues  forth, 
Spurred  by  the  West  or  smitten  by  the  North, 
Sombre  in  all  its  sullen  Deeps,  and  all 
Clear  at  the  Crest,  and  foaming  to  the  Fall, 
The  next  with  silver  Murmur  dies  away, 
Like  Tides  that  falter  to  Calypso's  Bay ! 

Thus  Time,  with  sordid  Alchemy  and  dread, 
Turns  half  the  Glory  of  your  Gold  to  Lead  ; 
Thus  Time  —  at  Ronsard's  wreath  that  vainly 

bit- 
Has  marred  the  Poet  to  preserve  the  Wit,  / 
Who  almost  left  on  Addison  a  stain,          ) 
Whose    knife    cut    cleanest    with   a    poisoned 

pain, — 
Yet  Thou  (strange  Fate  that  clings  to  all  of 

Thine!) 

When  most  a  Wit  dost  most  a,  P^pf  diin**- 
In  Poetry  thy  Dunciad  expires, 
When  Wit  has  shot  "  her  momentary  FiresJ^ 
'T  is  Tragedy  that  watches  by  the  Bed 
"  Where  tawdry  Yellow  strove  with  dirty  Red," 
And  Men,  remembering  all,  can  scarce  deny 
To  lay  the  Laurel  where  thine  Ashes  lie ! 


TO   LUCIAN    OF   SAMOSATA 


VI 


To  Lucian  of  Samosata 


N  what  bower,  oh  Lucian,  of  your  re- 
discovered Islands  Fortunate  are  you 
now  reclining ;  the  delight  of  the  fair, 
the  learned,  the  witty,  and  the  brave? 
In  that  clear  and  tranquil  climate,  whose  air 
breathes  of  "  violet  and  lily,  myrtle,  and  the  flower 
of  the  vine," 

Where  the  daisies  are  rose-scented, 
And  the  Rose  herself  has  got 
Perfume  which  on  earth  is  not, 

among  the  music  of  all  birds,  and  the  wind-blown 
notes  of  flutes  hanging  on  the  trees,  methinks  that 
your  laughter  sounds  most  silvery  sweet,  and  that 
Helen  and  fair  Charmides  are  still  of  your  com- 
pany. Master  of  mirth,  and  Soul  the  best  con- 
tented of  all  that  have  seen  the  world's  ways 
53 


54  LETTERS   TO  DEAD  AUTHORS 

clearly,  most  clear-sighted  of  all  that  have  made 
tranquillity  their  bride,  what  other  laughers  dwell 
with  you,  where  the  crystal  and  fragrant  waters 
wander  round  the  shining  palaces  and  the  temples 
of  amethyst  ? 

Heine  surely  is  with  you ;  if,  indeed,  it  was  not 
one  Syrian  soul  that  dwelt  among  alien  men, 
Germans  and  Romans,  in  the  bodily  tabernacles 
of  Heine  and  of  Lucian.  But  he  was  fallen  on 
evil  times  and  evil  tongues;  while  Lucian,  as 
witty  as  he,  as  bitter  in  mockery,  as  happily 
dowered  with  the  magic  of  words,  lived  long  and 
happily  and  honored,  imprisoned  in  no  "  mattress- 
grave. "  Without  Rabelais,  without  Voltaire,  with- 
out Heine,  you  would  find,  methinks,  even  the 
joys  of  your  Happy  Islands  lacking  in  zest;  and, 
unless  Plato  came  by  your  way,  none  of  the  ancients 
could  meet  you  in  the  lists  of  sportive  dialogue. 

There,  among  the  vines  that  bear  twelve  times 
in  the  year,  more  excellent  than  all  the  vineyards 
of  Touraine,  while  the  song-birds  bring  you  flow- 
ers from  vales  enchanted,  and  the  shapes  of  the 
Blessed  come  and  go,  beautiful  in  wind-woven 
raiment  of  sunset  hues ;  there,  in  a  land  that  knows 
not  age,  nor  winter,  midnight,  nor  autumn,  nor 
noon,  where  the  silver  twilight  of  summer-dawn  is 
perennial,  where  youth  does  not  wax  spectre-pale 
and  die ;  there,  my  Lucian,  you  are  crowned  the 
Prince  of  the  Paradise  of  Mirth. 

Who  would  bring  you,  if  he  had  the  power, 
from  the  banquet  where  Homer  sings :  Homer, 


TO  LUCIAN  OF  S AMOS  AT  A  55 

who,  in  mockery  of  commentators,  past  and  to 
come,  German  and  Greek,  informed  you  that  he 
was  by  birth  a  Babylonian?  Yet,  if  you,  who  first 
wrote  "  Dialogues  of  the  Dead,"  could  hear  the 
prayer  of  an  epistle  wafted  to  "  lands  indiscover- 
able  in  the  unheard-of  West,"  you  might  visit  once 
more  a  world  so  worthy  of  such  a  mocker,  so  like 
the  world  you  knew  so  well  of  old. 

Ah,  Lucian,  we  have  need  of  you,  of  your  sense 
and  of  your  mockery !  Here,  where  faith  is  sick 
and  superstition  is  waking  afresh;  where  gods 
come  rarely,  and  spectres  appear  at  five  shillings 
an  interview ;  where  science  is  popular,  and  philos- 
ophy cries  aloud  in  the  market-place,  and  clamor 
does  duty  for  government,  and  Thais  and  Lais  are 
names  of  power — here,  Lucian,  is  room  and  scope 
for  you.  Can  I  not  imagine  a  new  "Auction  of 
Philosophers,"  and  what  wealth  might  be  made  by 
him  who  bought  these  popular  sages  and  lecturers 
at  his  estimate,  and  vended  them  at  their  own  ? 

HERMES:  Whom  shall  we  put  first  up  to 
auction  ? 

ZEUS:  That  German  in  spectacles;  he  seems  a 
highly  respectable  man. 

HERMES:  Ho,  Pessimist,  come  down  and  let 
the  public  view  you. 

ZEUS  :  Go  on,  put  him  up  and  have  done  with  him. 

HERMES  :  Who  bids  for  the  Life  Miserable,  for 
extreme,  complete,  perfect,  unredeemable  perdi- 
tion ?  What  offers  for  the  universal  extinction  of 
the  species,  and  the  collapse  of  the  Conscious? 


56        LETTERS  TO  DEAD  AUTHORS 

A  PURCHASER  :  He  does  not  look  at  all  a  bad 
lot.  May  one  put  him  through  his  paces  ? 

HERMES:  Certainly;  try  your  luck. 

PURCHASER  :  What  is  your  name  ? 

PESSIMIST:  Hartmann. 

PURCHASER  :  What  can  you  teach  me  ? 

PESSIMIST  :  That  Life  is  not  worth  Living. 

PURCHASER:  Wonderful!  Most  edifying !  How 
much  for  this  lot  ? 

HERMES  :  Two  hundred  pounds. 

PURCHASER:  I  will  write  you  a  check  for  the 
money.  Come  home,  Pessimist,  and  begin  your 
lessons  without  more  ado. 

HERMES:  Attention!  Here  is  a  magnificent  arti- 
cle—  the  Positive  Life,  the  Scientific  Life,  the  En- 
thusiastic Life.  Who  bids  for  a  possible  place  in 
the  Calendar  of  the  Future  ? 

PURCHASER:  What  does  he  call  himself?  he 
has  a  very  French  air. 

HERMES  :  Put  your  own  questions. 

PURCHASER  :  What  's  your  pedigree,  my  Phi- 
losopher, and  previous  performances  ? 

POSITIVIST:  I  am  by  Rousseau  out  of  Catholi- 
cism, with  a  strain  of  the  Evolution  blood. 

PURCHASER  :  What  do  you  believe  in  ? 

POSITIVIST  :  In  Man,  with  a  large  M. 

PURCHASER  :  Not  in  individual  Man  ? 

POSITIVIST:  By  no  means;  not  even  always  in 
Mr.  Gladstone.  All  men,  all  Churches,  all  parties, 
all  philosophies,  and  even  the  other  sect  of  our 
own  Church,  are  perpetually  in  the  wrong.  Buy 


TO  LUClAtf  OF  SAM  OS  AT  A  57 

me,  and  listen  to  me,  and  you  will  always  be  in 
the  right. 

PURCHASER  :  And,  after  this  life,  what  have  you 
to  offer  me  ? 

POSITIVIST:  A  distinguished  position  in  the 
Choir  Invisible ;  but  not,  of  course,  conscious  im- 
mortality. 

PURCHASER  :  Take  him  away,  and  put  up  an- 
other lot. 

Then  the  Hegelian,  with  his  Notion,  and  the 
Darwinian,  with  his  notions,  and  the  Lotzian,  with 
his  Broad  Church  mixture  of  Religion  and  Evolu- 
tion, and  the  Spencerian,  with  that  Absolute  which 
is  a  sort  of  something,  might  all  be  offered  with  their 
divers  wares ;  and  cheaply  enough,  Lucian,  you 
would  value  them  in  this  auction  of  Sects.  "  There 
is  but  one  way  to  Corinth,"  as  of  old;  but  which 
that  way  may  be,  oh  master  of  Hermotiinus,  we 
know  no  more  than  he  did  of  old ;  and  still  we  find, 
of  all  philosophies,  that  the  Stoic  route  is  most  to 
be  recommended.  But  we  have  our  Cyrenaics  too, 
though  they  are  no  longer  "  clothed  in  purple,  and 
crowned  with  flowers,  and  fond  of  drink  and  of 
female  flute-players."  Ah,  here  too,  you  might 
laugh,  and  fail  to  see  where  the  Pleasure  lies,  when 
the  Cyrenaics  are  no  "judges  of  cakes"  (nor  of 
ale,  for  that  matter),  and  are  strangers  in  the  Courts 
of  Princes.  "  To  despise  all  things,  to  make  use 
of  all  things,  in  all  things  to  follow  pleasure  only" : 
that  is  not  the  manner  of  the  new,  if  it  were  the 
secret  of  the  older  Hedonism. 


58  LETTERS   TO  DEAD  AUTHORS 

Then,  turning  from  the  philosophers  to  the  seek- 
ers after  a  sign,  what  change,  Lucian,  would  you 
find  in  them  and  their  ways  ?  None ;  they  are 
quite  unaltered.  Still  our  Peregrinus,  and  our 
Peregrina  too,  come  to  us  from  the  East,  or,  if  from 
the  West,  they  take  India  on  their  way — India, 
that  secular  home  of  drivelling  creeds,  and  of  re- 
ligion in  its  sacerdotage.  Still  they  prattle  of 
Brahmins  and  Buddhism ;  though,  unlike  Pere- 
grinus, they  do  not  publicly  burn  themselves  on 
pyres,  at  Epsom  Downs,  after  the  Derby.  We  are 
not  so  fortunate  in  the  demise  of  our  Theosophists ; 
and  our  police,  less  wise  than  the  Hellenodicse, 
would  probably  not  permit  the  Immolation  of  the 
Quack.  Like  your  Alexander,  they  deal  in  mar- 
vels and  miracles,  oracles  and  warnings.  All  such 
bogy  stories  as  those  of  your  "  Philopseudes,"  and 
the  ghost  of  the  lady  who  took  to  table-rapping 
because  one  of  her  best  slippers  had  not  been 
burned  with  her  body,  are  gravely  investigated  by 
the  Psychical  Society. 

Even  your  ignorant  Bibliophile  is  still  with  us  — 
the  man  without  a  tinge  of  letters,  who  buys  up 
old  manuscripts  "  because  they  are  stained  and 
gnawed,  and  who  goes,  for  proof  of  valued  an- 
tiquity, to  the  testimony  of  the  bookworms."  And 
the  rich  Bibliophile  now,  as  in  your  satire,  clothes 
his  volumes  in  purple  morocco  and  gay  dorures, 
while  their  contents  are  sealed  to  him. 

As  to  the  topics  of  satire  and  gay  curiosity  which 
occupy  the  lady  known  as  «'  Gyp,"  and  M,  Halevy 


TO  LUCIAN  OF  S  AMOS  AT  A  59 

in  his  "  Les  Petites  Cardinal,"  if  you  had  not  ex- 
hausted the  matter  in  your  "  Dialogues  of  Hetai- 
rai,"  you  would  be  amused  to  find  the  same  old 
traits  surviving  without  a  touch  of  change.  One 
reads,  in  Halevy's  French,  of  Madame  Cardinal, 
and,  in  your  Greek,  of  the  mother  of  Philinna,  and 
marvels  that  eighteen  hundred  years  have  not  in 
one  single  trifle  altered  the  mould.  Still  the  old 
shabby  light-loves,  the  old  greed,  the  old  luxury 
and  squalor.  Still  the  unconquerable  superstition 
that  now  seeks  to  tell  fortunes  by  the  cards,  and, 
in  your  time,  resorted  to  the  sorceress  with  her 
magical  "  bull-roarer  "  or  turndun.^ 

Yes,  Lucian,  we  are  the  same  vain  creatures  of 
doubt  and  dread,  of  unbelief  and  credulity,  of  ava- 
rice and  pretence,  that  you  knew,  and  at  whom 
you  smiled.  Nay,  our  very  "  social  question  "  is 
not  altered.  Do  you  not  write,  in  "The  Runa- 
ways "  :  "  The  artisans  will  abandon  their  work- 
shops, and  leave  their  trades,  when  they  see  that, 
with  all  the  labor  that  bows  their  bodies  from 
dawn  to  dark,  they  make  a  petty  and  starveling 
pittance,  while  men  that  toil  not  nor  spin  are  float- 
ing in  Pactolus"? 

They  begin  to  see  this  again  as  of  yore;  but 
whether  the  end  of  their  vision  will  be  a  laughing 
matter,  you,  fortunate  Lucian,  do  not  need  to  care. 
Hail  to  you,  and  farewell ! 

1  The  Greek  po/u/tos,  mentioned  by  Lucian  and  Theoc- 
ritus, was  the  magical  weapon  of  the  Australians  —  the 
turndun. 


TO 


MAlTRE    FRANgOYS   RABELAIS 


OF   THH 


VII 

To  Maitre  Fran$oys  Rabelais 

OF  THE  COMING  OF  THE  COQCIGRUES 


ASTER,— In  the  Boreal  and  Septentri- 
onal lands,  turned  aside  from  the  noon- 
day and  the  sun,  there  dwelt  of  old  (as 
?.  thou  knowest,  and  as  Olaus  voucheth) 
a  race  of  men,  brave,  strong,  nimble,  and  adventu- 
rous, who  had  no  other  care  but  to  fight  and 
drink.  There,  by  reason  of  the  cold  (as  Virgil 
witnesseth),  men  brake  wine  with  axes.  To 
their  minds,  when  once  they  were  dead  and 
gotten  to  Valhalla,  or  the  place  of  their  Gods, 
there  would  be  no  other  pleasure  but  to  swig, 
tipple,  drink,  and  boose  till  the  coming  of  that 
last  darkness  and  Twilight,  wherein  they,  with 
their  deities,  should  do  battle  against  the  enemies 
of  all  mankind;  which  day  they  rather  desired 
than  dreaded. 

63 


64  LETTERS   TO  DEAD  AUTHORS 

So  chanced  it  also  with  Pantagruel  and  Brother 
John  and  their  company,  after  they  had  once 
partaken  of  the  secret  of  the  Dive  Bouteille. 
Thereafter  they  searched  no  longer ;  but,  abiding 
at  their  ease,  were  merry,  frolic,  jolly,  gay,  glad, 
and  wise;  only  that  they  always  and  ever  did 
expect  the  awful  Coming  of  the  Coqcigrues. 
Now,  concerning  the  day  of  that  coming,  and  the 
nature  of  them  that  should  come,  they  knew 
nothing ;  and,  for  his  part,  Panurge  was  all  the 
more  adread,  as  Aristotle  testifieth  that  men  (and 
Panurge  above  others)  most  fear  that  which  they 
know  least.  Now  it  chanced  one  day,  as  they  sat 
at  meat,  with  viands  rare,  dainty,  and  precious  as 
ever  Apicius  dreamed  of,  that  there  fluttered  on 
the  air  a  faint  sound  as  of  sermons,  speeches, 
orations,  addresses,  discourses,  lectures,  and  the 
like;  whereat  Panurge,  pricking  up  his  ears, 
cried,  "  Methinks  this  wind  bloweth  from  Mid- 
lothian," and  so  fell  a  trembling. 

Next,  to  their  aural  orifices,  and  the  avenues 
audient  of  the  brain,  was  borne  a  very  melancholy 
sound  as  of  harmoniums,  hymns,  organ-pianos, 
psalteries,  and  the  like,  all  playing  different  airs, 
in  a  kind  most  hateful  to  the  Muses.  Then  said 
Panurge,  as  well  as  he  might  for  the  chattering 
of  his  teeth :  "  May  I  never  drink  if  here  come 
not  the  Coqcigrues  !  "  and  this  saying  and 
prophecy  of  his  was  true  and  inspired.  But 
thereon  the  others  began  to  mock,  flout,  and 
gird  at  Panurge  for  his  cowardice.  "  Here  am 


TO  MAlTRE  FRANGOYS  RABELAIS     65 

I !  "  cried  Brother  John,  "  well  armed  and  ready 
to  stand  a  siege;  being  entrenched,  fortified, 
hemmed  in  and  surrounded  with  great  pasties, 
huge  pieces  of  salted  beef,  salads,  fricassees,  hams, 
tongues,  pies,  and  a  wilderness  of  pleasant  little 
tarts,  jellies,  pastries,  trifles,  and  fruits  of  all 
kinds;  and  I  shall  not  thirst  while  I  have  good 
wells,  founts,  springs,  and  sources  of  Bordeaux 
wine,  Burgundy,  wine  of  the  Champagne  country, 
sack,  and  Canary.  A  fig  for  thy  Coqcigrues  !  " 

But  even  as  he  spoke  there  ran  up  suddenly  a 
whole  legion,  or  rather  army,  of  physicians,  each 
armed  with  laryngoscopes,  stethoscopes,  horo- 
scopes, microscopes,  weighing  machines,  and  such 
other  tools,  engines,  and  arms  as  they  had  who, 
after  thy  time,  persecuted  Monsieur  de  Pourceau- 
gnac !  And  they,  all  rushing  on  Brother  John, 
cried  out  to  him,  "Abstain!  Abstain!"  And 
one  said,  "  I  have  well  diagnosed  thee,  and  thou 
art  in  a  fair  way  to  have  the  gout."  "  I  never  did 
better  in  my  days,"  said  Brother  John.  "Away 
with  thy  meats  and  drinks !  "  they  cried.  And 
one  said,  "  He  must  to  Royat " ;  and  another, 
"  Hence  with  him  to  Aix  "  ;  and  a  third,  "  Banish 
him  to  Wiesbaden  " ;  and  a  fourth,  "  Hale  him  to 
Gastein  " ;  and  yet  another,  "  To  Barbouille  with 
him  in  chains  !  " 

And  while  others  felt  his  pulse  and  looked  at 
his  tongue,  they  all  wrote  prescriptions  for  him 
like  men  mad.  "For  thy  eating,"  cried  he  that 
seemed  to  be  their  leader,  "no  soup!"  "No 


66  LETTERS   TO  DEAD  AUTHORS 

soup !  "  quoth  Brother  John ;  and  those  cheeks 
of  his,  whereat  you  might  have  warmed  your  two 
hands  in  the  winter  solstice,  grew  white  as  lilies. 
"  Nay !  and  no  salmon,  nor  any  beef  nor  mutton  ! 
A  little  chicken  by  times,  but  periculo  tuo!  Nor 
any  game,  such  as  grouse,  partridge,  pheasant,  ca- 
percailzie, wild  duck;  nor  any  cheese,  nor  fruit,  nor 
pastry,  nor  coffee,  nor  eau  de  vie ;  and  avoid  all 
sweets.  No  veal,  pork,  nor  made  dishes  of  any 
kind."  "Then  what  may  I  eat  ?  "  quoth  the  good 
Brother,  whose  valor  had  oozed  out  of  the  soles 
of  his  sandals.  "  A  little  cold  bacon  at  breakfast — 
no  eggs,"  quoth  the  leader  of  the  strange  folk, 
"and  a  slice  of  toast  without  butter."  "  And  for 
thy  drink  "  —  ("  What  ?  "  gasped  Brother  John)  — 
"  one  dessert-spoonful  of  whiskey,  with  a  pint  of 
the  water  of  Apollinaris,  at  luncheon  and  dinner. 
No  more !  "  At  this  Brother  John  fainted,  falling 
like  a  great  buttress  of  a  hill,  such  as  Taygetus  or 
Erymanthus. 

While  they  were  busy  with  him,  others  of  the 
frantic  folk  had  built  great  platforms  of  wood, 
whereon  they  all  stood  and  spoke  at  once,  both 
men  and  women.  And  of  these  some  wore  red 
crosses  on  their  garments,  which  meaneth  "Salva- 
tion "  ;  and  others  wore  white  crosses,  with  a  little 
black  button  of  crape,  to  signify  "  Purity  "  ;  and 
others  bits  of  blue  to  mean  "Abstinence."  While 
some  of  these  pursued  Panurge,  others  did  beset 
Pantagruel ;  askinghim  very  long  questions,  where- 
unto  he  gave  but  short  answers.  Thus  they  asked : 


TO  MAlTRE  FR ANNOYS  RABELAIS     67 

Have  ye  Local  Option  here  ?  —  Pan. :  What  ? 

May  one  man  drink  if  his  neighbor  be  not 
athirst?  — Pan:  Yea! 

Have  ye  Free  Education  ?  —  Pan.  :  What  ? 

Must  they  that  have  pay  to  school  them  that 
have  not? —  Pan. :  Nay ! 

Have  ye  free  land  ?  —  Pan. :  WThat  ? 

Have  ye  taken  the  land  from  the  farmer,  and 
given  it  to  the  tailor  out  of  work  and  the  candle - 
maker  masterless  ?  —  Pan.  :  Nay ! 

Have  your  women  folk  votes  ?  —  Pan. :  Bosh  ! 

Have  ye  got  religion?  —  Pan.  :  How? 

Do  you  go  about  the  streets  at  night,  brawling, 
blowing  a  trumpet  before  you,  and  making  long 
prayers  ?  —  Pan.  :  Nay ! 

Have  you  manhood  suffrage  ?  —  Pan.  :  Eh  ? 

Is  Jack  as  good  as  his  master  ?  —  Pan. :  Nay  ! 

Have  you  joined  the  Arbitration  Society? — Pan.. 
Quoy  ? 

Will  you  let  another  kick  you,  and  will  you  ask 
his  neighbor  if  you  deserve  the  same  ?  —  Pan. : 
Nay! 

Do  you  eat  what  you  list  ?  —  Pan. :  Ay ! 

Do  you  drink  when  you  are  athirst  ?  —  Pan. :  Ay ! 

Are  you  governed  by  the  free  expression  of  the 
popular  will  ?  —  Pan. :  How  ? 

Are  you  servants  of  priests,  pulpits,  and  penny 
papers  ?  —  Pan. :  No ! 

Now,  when  they  heard  these  answers  of  Panta- 
gruel  they  all  fell,  some  a  weeping,  some  a  pray- 
ing, some  a  swearing,  some  an  arbitrating,  some 


68  LETTERS   TO  DEAD  AUTHORS 

a  lecturing,  some  a  caucussing,  some  a  preaching, 
some  a  faith-healing,  some  a  miracle-working, 
some  a  hypnotizing,  some  a  writing  to  the  daily 
press ;  and  while  they  were  thus  busy,  like  folk 
distraught,  "reforming  the  island,"  Pantagruel 
burst  out  a  laughing ;  whereat  they  were  greatly 
dismayed ;  for  laughter  killeth  the  whole  race  of 
Coqcigrues,  and  they  may  not  endure  if. 

Then  Pantagruel  and  his  company  stole  aboard 
a  bark  that  Panurge  had  ready  in  the  harbor. 
And  having  provisioned  her  well  with  store  of 
meat  and  good  drink,  they  set  sail  for  the  king- 
dom of  Entelechy,  where,  having  landed,  they 
were  kindly  entreated;  and  there  abide  to  this 
day;  drinking  of  the  sweet  and  eating  of  the  fat, 
under  the  protection  of  that  intellectual  sphere 
which  hath  in  all  places  its  centre  and  nowhere 
its  circumference. 

Such  was  their  destiny;  there  was  their  end 
appointed,  and  thither  the  Coqcigrues  can  never 
come.  For  all  the  air  of  that  land  is  full  of 
laughter,  which  killeth  Coqcigrues ;  and  there 
aboundeth  the  herb  Pantagruelion.  But  for  thee, 
Master  Frangoys,  thou  art  not  well  liked  in  this 
island  of  ours,  where  the  Coqcigrues  are  abun- 
dant, very  fierce,  cruel,  and  tyrannical.  Yet  thou 
hast  thy  friends,  that  meet  and  drink  to  thee  and 
wish  thee  well  wheresoever  thou  hast  found  thy 
grand  peut-etre. 


TO   JANE   AUSTEN 


VIII 


To  Jane  Austen 


ADAM, —  If  to  the  enjoyments  of  your 
present  state  be  lacking  a  view  of  the 
minor  infirmities  or  foibles  of  men,  I 
cannot  but  think  (were  the  thought  per- 
mitted) that  your  pleasures  are  yet  incomplete. 
Moreover,  it  is  certain  that  a  woman  of  parts  who 
has  once  meddled  with  literature  will  never  wholly 
lose  her  love  for  the  discussion  of  that  delicious 
topic,  nor  cease  to  relish  what  (in  the  cant  of  our 
new  age)  is  styled  "literary  shop."  For  these 
reasons  I  attempt  to  convey  to  you  some  inkling  of 
the  present  state  of  that  agreeable  art  which  you, 
madam,  raised  to  its  highest  pitch  of  perfection. 

As  to  your  own  works  (immortal,  as  I  believe), 

I  have  but  little  that  is  wholly  cheering  to  tell  one 

who,  among  women  of  letters,  was  almost  alone 

in  her  freedom  from  a  lettered  vanity.     You  are 

71 


72  LETTERS   TO  DEAD  AUTHORS 

not  a  very  popular  author :  your  volumes  are  not 
found  in  gaudy  covers  on  every  bookstall ;  or,  if 
found,  are  not  perused  with  avidity  by  the  Emmas 
and  Catherines  of  our  generation.  'T  is  not  long 
since  a  blow  was  dealt  (in  the  estimation  of  the 
unreasoning)  at  your  character  as  an  author  by 
the  publication  of  your  familiar  letters.  The 
editor  of  these  epistles,  unfortunately,  did  not 
always  take  your  witticisms,  and  he  added  others 
which  were  too  unmistakably  his  own.  While 
the  injudicious  were  disappointed  by  the  absence 
of  your  exquisite  style  and  humor,  the  wiser  sort 
were  the  more  convinced  of  your  wisdom.  In 
your  letters  (knowing  your  correspondents)  you 
gave  but  the  small  personal  talk  of  the  hour,  for 
them  sufficient;  for  your  books  you  reserved 
matter  and  expression  which  are  imperishable. 
Your  admirers,  if  not  very  numerous,  include 
all  persons  of  taste,  who,  in  your  favor,  are  apt 
somewhat  to  abate  the  rule,  or  shake  off  the  habit, 
which  commonly  confines  them  to  but  temperate 
laudation. 

/  ^  *T  is  the  fault  of  all  art  to  seem  antiquated  and 
faded  in  the  eyes  of  the  succeeding  generation. 
The  manners  of  ^our  age  were  not  the  manners 
of  to-day,  and  young  gentlemen  and  ladies  who 
think  Scott  "slow,"  think  Miss  Austen  "prim" 
and  "  dreary./^  Yet,  even  could  you  return  among 
us,  I  scarcely  believe  that,  speaking  the  language 
of  the  hour,  as  you  might,  and  versed  in  its  habits, 
you  would  win  the  general  admiration.  For  how 


TO  JANE  AUSTEN  73 

tame,  madam,  are  your  rhqrqH-Argj  f specially  your 


favorite  TiArninpg  »  how  limited  the  life  which  you 
knew  and  described !  how  narrow  the  range  of 
y_our  incidents  !  how  correct  your  grammar ! 

As  heroines,  for  example,  you  chose  ladies  like 
Emma,  and  Elizabeth,  and  Catherine  :  women  re- 
markable neither  for  the  brilliance  nor  for  the 
degradation  of  their  birth ;  women  wrapped  up  in 
their  own  and  the  parish's  concerns,  ignorant  of 
evil,  as  it  seems,  and  unacquainted  with  vain  yearn- 
ings and  interesting  doubts.     Who  can  engage  his  \ 
fancy  with  their  match-makings  and  the  conduct  \ 
of  their  affections,  when  so  many  daring  and  daz-  / 
zling  heroines  approach  and  solicit  his  regard  ?       ' 

Here  are  princesses  dressed  in  white  velvet 
stamped  with  golden  fleurs-de-lys — ladies  with 
hearts  of  ice  and  lips  of  fire,  who  count  their  rubles 
by  the  million,  their  lovers  by  the  score,  and  even 
their  husbands,  very  often,  in  figures  of  some  arith- 
metical importance.  With  these  are  the  immacu- 
late daughters  of  itinerant  Italian  musicians,  maids 
whose  souls  are  unsoiled  amidst  the  contaminations 
of  our  streets,  and  whose  acquaintance  with  the  art 
of  Phidias  and  Praxiteles,  of  Daedalus  and  Scopas, 
is  the  more  admirable  because  entirely  derived 
from  loving  study  of  the  inexpensive  collections 
vended  by  the  plaster-of- Paris  man  round  the  cor- 
ner. When  such  heroines  are  wooed  by  the  nephews 
of  dukes,  where  are  your  Emmas  and  Elizabeths  ?^ 
Your  volumes  neither  excite  nor  satisfy  the  curi-  / 
osities  provoked  by  that  modern  and  scientific  fie-  / 


74  LETTERS   TO  DEAD  AUTHORS 

tion,  which  is  greatly  admired,  I  learn,  in  the 
United  States  as  well  as  in  France  and  at  home. 

<^You  erred,  it  cannot  be  denied,  with  your  eyes 
open.  Knowing  Lydia  and  Kitty  so  intimately  as 

t  you  did,  why  did  you  make  of  them  almost  insig- 

/  nificant  characters  ?  With  Lydia  for  a  heroine  you 
might  have  gone  far ;  and,  had  you  devoted  three 
volumes,  and  the  chief  of  your  time,  to  the  pas- 
sions of  Kitty,  you  might  have  held  your  own, 
even  now,  in  the  circulating  library.  How  Lyddy, 
perched  on  a  corner  of  the  roof,  first  beheld  her 
Wickham ;  how,  on  her  challenge,  he  climbed  up 
by  a  ladder  to  her  side ;  how  they  kissed,  caressed, 
swung  on  gates  together,  met  at  odd  seasons,  in 
strange  places,  and  finally  eloped :  all  this  might 
have  been  put  in  the  mouth  of  a  jealous  elder  sis- 
ter, say  Elizabeth,  and  you  would  not  have  been 
less  popular  than  several  favorites  of  our  time. 
Had  you  cast  the  whole  narrative  into  the  present 
tense,  and  lingered  lovingly  over  the  thickness  of 
Mary's  legs  and  the  softness  of  Kitty's  cheeks,  and 
the  blond  fluffiness  of  Wickham's  whiskers,  you 
would  have  left  a  romance  still  dear  to  young 
ladies. 

^Or  again,  you  might  entrance  your  students  still, 
had  you  concentrated  your  attention  on  Mrs.  Rush- 
worth,  who  eloped  with  Henry  Crawford.  These 
should  have  been  the  chief  figures  of  "  Mansfield 
Park."  But  you  timidly  decline  to  tackle  Passion^ 
"I^et  other  pens,"  you  write,  "  dwell  on  guilt  and 
misery. I  quit  such  odious  subjects  as  soon  as  I 


TO  JANE  AUSTEN  75 


can."  Ah,  ther?  is.  fh*»  gprrpf  of  ypuj  failure! 
Need  I  add  that  the  vulgarity  and  narrowness  of 
the  social  circles  you  describe  impair  your  popu- 
larity? I  scarce  remember  more  than  one  lady 
of  title,  and  but  very  few  lords  (and  these  unessen- 
tial), in  all  your  tales.  Now,  when  we  all  wish  to  be 
in  society,  we  demand  plenty  of  titles  in  our  novels, 
at  any  rate,  and  we  get  lords  (and  very  queer  lords) 
even  from  Republican  authors,  born  in  a  country 
which  in  your  time  was  not  renowned  for  its  lit- 
erature. I  have  heard  a  critic  remark,  with  a  de- 
cided air  of  fashion,  on  the  brevity  of  the  notice 
which  your  characters  give  each  other  when  they 
offer  invitations  to  dinner.  "An  invitation  to  din- 
ner next  day  was  despatched,"  and  this  demon- 
strates that  your  acquaintance  "  went  out  "  very 
little,  and  had  but  few  engagements.  How  vulgar, 
too,  is  one  of  your  heroines,  who  bids  Mr.  Darcy 
"keep  his  breath  to  cool  his  porridge."  I  blush 
for  Elizabeth  !  It  was  superfluous  to  add  that  your 
characters  are  debased  by  being  invariably  mere 
members  of  the  Church  of  England  as  by  law  es- 
tablished. The  Dissenting  enthusiast,  the  open 
soul  that  glides  from  Esoteric  Buddhism  to  the 
Salvation  Army,  and  from  the  Higher  Pantheism 
to  the  Higher  Paganism,  we  look  for  in  vain  among 
your  studies  of  character.  Nay,  the  very  words  I 
employ  are  of  unknown  sound  to  you  ;  so  how  can 
you  help  us  in  the  stress  of  the  soul's  travailings  ? 
You  may  say  that  the  soul's  travailings  are  no 
affair  of  yours  ;  proving  thereby  that  you  have  in- 


76  LETTERS   TO  DEAD  AUTHORS 

deed  but  a  lowly  conception  of  the  duty  of  the  nov- 
elist. I  only  remember  one  reference,  in  all  your 
works,  to  that  controversy  which  occupies  the  chief 
of  our  attention  —  the  great  controversy  on  Crea- 
tion or  Evolution.  Your  Jane  Bennet  cries:  "I 
have  no  idea  of  there  being  so  much  Design  in 
the  world  as  some  persons  imagine."  Nor  do  you 
touch  on  our  mighty  social  question,  the  Land 
Laws,  save  when  Mrs.  Bennet  appears  as  a  Land 
Reformer,  and  rails  bitterly  against  the  cruelty 
"  of  settling  an  estate  away  from  a  family  of  five 
daughters,  in  favor  of  a  man  whom  nobody  cared 
anything  about."  There,  madam,  in  that  cruelly 
unjust  performance,  what  a  text  you  had  for  a  Ten- 
denz-Roman.  Nay,  you  can  allow  Kitty  to  report 
that  a  Private  had  been  flogged,  without  introducing 
a  chapter  on  Flogging  in  the  Army.  But  you  for- 
mally declined  to  stretch  your  matter  out,  here 
and  there,  "with  solemn  specious  nonsense  about 
something  unconnected  with  the  story."  No  "pad- 
ding "  for  Miss  Austen  !  In  fact,  madam,  as  you 
were  born  before  Analysis  came  in,  or  Passion,  or 
Realism,  or  Naturalism,  or  Irreverence,  or  Reli- 
gious Open-mindedness,  you  really  cannot  hope  to 
rival  your  literary  sisters  in  the  minds  of  a  per- 
plexed generation.  Your  heroines  are  not  pas- 
sionate, we  do  not  see  their  red  wet  cheeks,  and 
tresses  dishevelled  in  the  manner  of  our  frank 
young  Maenads.  What  says  your  best  successor, 
a  lady  who  adds  fresh  lustre  to  a  name  that  in  fic- 
tion equals  yours?  She  says  of  Miss  Austen: 


TO  JANE  AUSTEN 

"  Her  heroines  have  a  stamp  of  their  own.  They 
have  a  certain  gentle  self-respect  and  humor  and 
hardness  of  heart.  .  .  .  Love  with  them  does  not 
mean  a  passion  as  much  as  an  interest,  deep  and 
silent."  I  think  one  prefers  them  so,  and  that 
Englishwomen  should  be  more  like  Anne  Elliot 
than  Maggie  Tulliver.  "  All  the  privilege  I  claim 
for  my  own  sex  is  that  of  loving  longest  when  ex- 
istence or  when  hope  is  gone,"  said  Anne ;  perhaps 
she  insisted  on  a  monopoly  that  neither  sex  has  all 
to  itself.  Ah,  madam,  what  a  relief  it  is  to  come 
back  to  your  witty  volumes,  and  forget  the  follies 
of  to-day  in  those  of  Mr.  Collins  and  of  Mrs. 
Bennet !  How  fine,  nay,  how  noble  is  your  art  in 
its  delicate  reserve,  never  insisting,  never  forcing 
the  note,  never  pushing  the  sketch  into  the  carica-  ^ 
ture  !  You  worked  without  thinking  of  it,  in  the 
spirit  of  Greece,  on  a  labor  happily  limited,  and 
exquisitely  organized.  "Dear  books,"  we  say, 
with  Miss  Thackeray — "dear  books, bright,  spark- 
ling with  wit  and  animation,  in  which  the  homely 
heroines  charm,  the  dull  hours  fly,  and  the  very 
bores  are  enchanting." 


TO   MASTER   ISAAK  WALTON 


IX 


To  Master  Isaak  Walton 


ATHER  ISAAK,— When  I  would  be 
quiet  and  go  angling  it  is  my  custom 
to  carry  in  my  wallet  thy  pretty  book, 
"  The  Compleat  Angler. "  Here,  me- 
thinks,  if  I  find  not  trout  I  shall  find  content,  and 
good  company,  and  sweet  songs,  fair  milkmaids, 
and  country  mirth.  For  you  are  to  know  that 
trout  be  now  scarce,  and  whereas  he  was  ever  a 
fearful  fish,  he  hath  of  late  become  so  wary  that 
none  but  the  cunningest  anglers  may  be  even 
with  him. 

It  is  not  as  it  was  in  your  time,  Father,  when 
a  man  might  leave  his  shop  in  Fleet  Street,  of  a 
holiday,  and,  when  he  had  stretched  his  legs  up 
Tottenham  Hill,  come  lightly  to  meadows  check- 
ered with  water-lilies  and  lady-smocks,  and  so 
fall  to  his  sport.  Nay,  now  have  the  houses  so 


82  LETTERS   TO  DEAD  AUTHORS 

much  increased,  like  a  spreading  sore  (through  the 
breaking  of  that  excellent  law  of  the  Conscientious 
King  and  blessed  Martyr,  whereby  building  beyond 
the  walls  was  forbidden),  that  the  meadows  are  all 
swallowed  up  in  streets.  And  as  to  the  River 
Lea,  wherein  you  took  many  a  good  trout,  I  read 
in  the  new  sheets  that  "its  bed  is  many  inches 
thick  in  horrible  filth,  and  the  air  for  more  than 
half  a  mile  on  each  side  of  it  is  polluted  with  a 
horrible,  sickening  stench,"  so  that  we  stand  in 
dread  of  a  new  Plague,  called  the  Cholera.  And 
so  it  is  all  about  London  for  many  miles,  and  if  a 
man,  at  heavy  charges,  betake  himself  to  the  fields, 
lo  you,  folk  are  grown  so  greedy  that  none  will 
suffer  a  stranger  to  fish  in  his  water. 

So  poor  anglers  are  in  sore  straits.  Unless  a 
man  be  rich  and  can  pay  great  rents,  he  may  not 
fish,  in  England,  and  hence  spring  the  discontents 
of  the  times,  for  the  angler  is  full  of  content,  if  he 
do  but  take  trout,  but  if  he  be  driven  from  the 
water-side,  he  falls,  perchance,  into  evil  company, 
and  cries  out  to  divide  the  property  of  the  gentle 
folk.  As  many  now  do,  even  among  Parliament- 
men,  whom  you  loved  not,  Father  Isaak,  neither 
do  I  love  them  more  than  Reason  and  Scripture 
bid  each  of  us  be  kindly  to  his  neighbor.  But, 
behold,  the  causes  of  the  ill  content  are  not  yet  all 
expressed,  for  even  where  a  man  hath  license  to 
fish,  he  will  hardly  take  trout  in  our  age,  unless 
he  be  all  the  more  cunning.  For  the  fish,  harried 
this  way  and  that  by  so  many  of  your  disciples,  is 


TO  MASTER  ISAAK  WALTON  83 

exceeding  shy  and  artful,  nor  will  he  bite  at  a  fly 
unless  it  falleth  lightly,  just  above  his  mouth,  and 
floateth  dry  over  him,  for  all  the  world  like  the 
natural  ephemeris.  And  we  may  no  longer  angle 
with  worm  for  him,  nor  with  penk  or  minnow, 
nor  with  the  natural  fly,  as  was  your  manner, 
but  only  with  the  artificial,  for  the  more  difficulty 
the  more  diversion.  For  my  part  I  may  cry, 
like  Viator  in  your  book,  "  Master,  I  can  neither 
catch  with  the  first  nor  second  Angle:  I  have 
no  fortune." 

So  we  fare  in  England,  but  somewhat  better  north 
of  the  Tweed,  where  trout  are  less  wary,  but  for  the 
most  part  small,  except  in  the  extreme  rough  north, 
among  horrid  hills  and  lakes.  Thither,  Master, 
as  methinks  you  may  remember,  went  Richard 
Franck,  that  called  himself  Philanthropies,  and 
was,  as  it  were,  the  Columbus  of  anglers,  discov- 
ering for  them  a  new  Hyperborean  world.  But 
Franck,  doubtless,  is  now  an  angler  in  the  Lake 
of  Darkness,  with  Nero  and  other  tyrants,  for  he 
followed  after  Cromwell,  the  man  of  blood,  in  the 
old  riding  days.  How  wickedly  doth  Franck 
boast  of  that  leader  of  the  giddy  multitude,  "when 
they  raged,  and  became  restless  to  find  out  misery 
for  themselves  and  others,  and  the  rabble  would 
herd  themselves  together,"  as  you  said,  "and  en- 
deavor to  govern  and  act  in  spite  of  authority." 
So  you  wrote  \  and  what  said  Franck,  that  recreant 
angler  ?  Doth  he  not  praise  "  Ireton,  Vane,  Ne- 
vill,  and  Martin,  and  the  most  renowned,  valorous, 


84  LETTERS   TO  DEAD  AUTHORS 

and  victorious  conqueror,  Oliver  Cromwell "  ?  Na- 
theless,  with  all  his  sins  on  his  head,  this  Franck 
discovered  Scotland  for  anglers,  and  my  heart  turns 
to  him  when  he  praises  "  the  glittering  and  reso- 
lute streams  of  Tweed." 

In  those  wilds  of  Assynt  and  Loch  Rannoch, 
Father,  we,  thy  followers,  may  yet  take  trout,  and 
forget  the  evils  of  the  times.  But,  to  be  done  with 
Franck,  how  harshly  he  speaks  of  thee  and  thy 
book.  "  For  you  may  dedicate  your  opinion  to 
what  scribbling  putationer  you  please ;  the  Corn- 
pleat  Angler  if  you  will,  who  tells  you  of  a  tedious 
fly  story,  extravagantly  collected  from  antiquated 
authors,  such  as  Gesner  and  Dubravius."  Again, 
he  speaks  of  "  Isaac  Walton,  whose  authority  to 
me  seems  alike  authentick,  as  is  the  general  opin- 
ion of  the  vulgar  prophet,"  etc. 

Certain  I  am  that  Franck,  if  a  better  angler  than 
thou,  was  a  worse  man,  who,  writing  his  "  Dia- 
logues Piscatorial  "  or  "  Northern  Memoirs  "  five 
years  after  the  world  welcomed  thy  "  Compleat 
Angler,"  was  jealous  of  thy  favor  with  the  people, 
and,  maybe,  hated  thee  for  thy  loyalty  and  sound 
faith.  But,  Master,  like  a  peaceful  man  avoiding 
contention,  thou  didst  never  answer  this  bluster- 
ing Franck,  but  wentest  quietly  about  thy  quiet 
Lea,  and  left  him  his  roaring  Brora  and  windy 
Assynt.  How  could  this  noisy  man  know  thee  — 
and  know  thee  he  did,  having  argued  with  thee  in 
Stafford  —  and  not  love  Isaak  Walton?  A  pedant 
angler,  I  call  him,  a  plaguy  angler,  so  let  him  huff 


TO  MASTER  ISAAK  WALTON  85 

away,  and  turn  we  to  thee,  and  to  thy  sweet  charm 
in  fishing  for  men. 

How  often,  studying  in  thy  book,  have  I  hum- 
med to  myself  that  of  Horace  — 

Laudis  amore  tumes?     Sunt  certa  piacula  quae  te 
Ter  pure  lecto  poterunt  recreare  libello. 

So  healing  a  book  for  the  frenzy  of  fame  is  thy 
discourse  on  meadows,  and  pure  streams,  and  the 
country  life.  How  peaceful,  men  say,  and  blessed 
must  have  been  the  life  of  this  old  man,  how 
lapped  in  content,  and  hedged  about  by  his  own 
humility  from  the  world !  They  forget,  who  speak 
thus,  that  thy  years,  which  were  many,  were  also 
evil,  or  would  have  seemed  evil  to  divers  that  had 
tasted  of  thy  fortunes.  Thou  wert  poor,  but  that,  to 
thee,  was  no  sorrow,  for  greed  of  money  was  thy 
detestation.  Thou  wert  of  lowly  rank,  in  an  age 
when  gentle  blood  was  alone  held  in  regard ;  yet 
thy  virtues  made  thee  hosts  of  friends,  and  chiefly 
among  religious  men,  bishops  and  doctors  of  the 
Church.  Thy  private  life  was  not  unacquainted 
with  sorrow ;  thy  first  wife  and  all  her  fair  children 
were  taken  from  thee  like  flowers  in  spring,  though, 
in  thine  age,  new  love  and  new  offspring  com- 
forted thee  like  "the  primrose  of  the  later  year." 
Thy  private  griefs  might  have  made  thee  bitter,  or 
melancholy,  so  might  the  sorrows  of  the  State  and 
of  the  Church,  which  were  deprived  of  their  heads 
by  cruel  men,  despoiled  of  their  wealth,  the  pious 


86  LETTERS   TO  DEAD  AUTHORS 

driven,  like  thee,  from  their  homes;  fear  every- 
where, everywhere  robbery  and  confusion :  all  this 
ruin  might  have  angered  another  temper.  But 
thou,  Father,  didst  bear  all  with  so  much  sweetness 
as  perhaps  neither  natural  temperament,  nor  a  firm 
faith,  nor  the  love  of  angling  could  alone  have  dis- 
played. For  we  see  niany  anglers  (as  witness 
Richard  Franck  aforesaid)  who  are  angry  men,  and 
myself,  when  I  get  my  hooks  entangled  at  every 
cast  in  a  tree,  have  come  nigh  to  swear  prophane. 
Also  we  see  religious  men  that  are  sour  and 
fanatical,  no  rare  thing  in  the  party  that  professes 
godliness.  But  neither  private  sorrow  nor  public 
grief  could  abate  thy  natural  kindliness,  nor 
shake  a  religion  which  was  not  untried,  but  had, 
indeed,  passed  through  the  furnace  like  fine  gold. 
For  if  we  find  not  Faith  at  all  times  easy,  because 
of  the  oppositions  of  Science,  and  the  searching 
curiosity  of  men's  minds,  neither  was  Faith  a 
matter  of  course  in  thy  day.  For  the  learned 
and  pious  were  greatly  tossed  about,  like  worthy 
Mr.  Chillingworth,  by  doubts  wavering  between 
the  Church  of  Rome  and  the  Reformed  Church 
of  England.  The  humbler  folk,  also,  were  in- 
vited, now  here,  now  there,  by  the  clamors  of 
fanatical  Nonconformists,  who  gave  themselves 
out  to  be  somebody,  while  Atheism  itself  was  not 
without  many  to  witness  to  it.  Therefore,  such 
a  religion  as  thine  was  not,  so  to  say,  a  mere 
innocence  of  evil  in  the  things  of  our  Belief,  but 
a  reasonable  and  grounded  faith,  strong  in  de- 


TO  MASTER  ISAAK  WALT  OK  87 

spite  of  oppositions.  Happy  was  the  man  in 
whom  temper,  and  religion,  and  the  love  of  the 
sweet  country  and  an  angler's  pastime  so  con- 
veniently combined;  happy  the  long  life  which 
held  in  its  hand  that  threefold  clew  through 
the  labyrinth  of  human  fortunes !  Around  thee 
Church  and  State  might  fall  in  ruins,  and  might 
be  rebuilded,  and  thy  tears  would  not  be  bitter, 
nor  thy  triumph  cruel. 

Thus,  by  God's  blessing,  it  befell  thee 

Nee  turpem  senectam 
Degere,  nee  cithara  carentem. 

I  would,  Father,  that  I  could  get  at  the  verity 
about  thy  poems.  Those  recommendatory  verses 
with  which  thou  didst  grace  the  Lives  of  Dr. 
Donne  and  others  of  thy  friends,  redound  more 
to  the  praise  of  thy  kind  heart  than  thy  fancy. 
But  what  or  whose  was  the  pastoral  poem  of 
"  Thealma  and  Clearchus,"  which  thou  didst  set 
about  printing  in  1678,  and  gavest  to  the  world 
in  1683?  Thou  gavest  John  Chalkhill  for  the 
author's  name,  and  a  John  Chalkhill  of  thy  kin- 
dred died  at  Winchester,  being  eighty  years  of 
his  age,  in  1679.  Now  thou  speakest  of  John 
Chalkhill  as  "  a  friend  of  Edmund  Spenser's," 
and  how  could  this  be  ? 

Are  they  right  who  hold  that  John  Chalkhil 
was  but  a  name  of  a  friend,  borrowed  by  thee  out 
of  modesty,  and  used  as  a  cloak  to  cover  poetry 
of  thine  own  inditing?  When  Mr.  Flatman 


88  LETTERS   TO  DEAD  AUTHORS 

writes  of  Chalkhill,  't  is  in  words  well  fitted  to 
thine  own  merit : 

Happy  old  man,  whose  worth  all  mankind  knows 
Except  himself,  who  charitably  shows 
The  ready  road  to  virtue  and  to  praise, 
The  road  to  many  long  and  happy  days. 

However  it  be,  in  that  road,  by  quiet  streams  and 
through  green  pastures,  thou  didst  walk  all  thine  al- 
mostcentury  of  years,  andwe,who  stray  into  thy  path 
out  of  the  highway  of  life,  we  seem  to  hold  thy  hand, 
and  listen  to  thy  cheerful  voice.  If  our  sport  be 
worse,  may  our  content  be  equal,  and  our  praise, 
therefore,  none  the  less.  Father,  if  Master  Stoddard, 
the  great  fisher  of  Tweedside,  be  with  thee,  greet  him 
for  me,  and  thank  him  for  those  songs  of  his,  and  per- 
chance he  will  troll  thee  a  catch  of  our  dear  River. 

Tweed !  winding  and  wild  !  where  the  heart  is  unbound, 
They  know  not,  they  dream  not,  who  linger  around, 
How  the  saddened  will  smile,  and  the  wasted  rewin 
From  thee  —  the  bliss  withered  within. 

Or  perhaps  thou  wilt  better  love 

The  lanesome  Tala  and  the  Lyne, 

And  Mahon  wi'  its  mountain  rills, 
An'  Etterick,  whose  waters  twine 

Wi'  Yarrow  frae  the  forest  hills ; 
An'  Gala,  too,  and  Teviot  bright, 

An'  mony  a  stream  o'  playfu*  speed, 
Their  kindred  valleys  a'  unite 

Amang  the  braes  o'  bonnie  Tweed ! 

So,  Master,  may  you  sing  against  each  other,  you 
two  good  old  anglers,  like  Peter  and  Corydon,  that 
sang  in  your  golden  age. 


TO   M.  CHAPELAIN 


To  M.  Chapelain 


ONSIEUR, —  You  were  a  popular  wri- 
ter, and  an  honorable,  over-educated, 
upright  gentleman.  Of  the  latter  char- 
acter you  can  never  be  deprived,  and  I 
doubt  not  it  stands  you  in  better  stead  where  you 
are,  than  the  laurels  which  flourished  so  gaily,  and 
faded  so  soon. 

Laurel  is  green  for  a  season,  and  Love  is  fair  for  a  day, 
But  Love  grows  bitter  with  treason,  and  laurel  outlives  not 
May. 

I  know  not  if  Mr.  Swinburne  is  correct  in  his 
botany,  but  your  laurel  certainly  outlived  not  May, 
nor  can  we  hope  that  you  dwell  where  Orpheus 
and  where  Homer  are.  Some  other  crown,  some 
other  Paradise,  we  cannot  doubt  it,  awaited  un  si 
bon  homme.  But  the  moral  excellence  that  even 
Boileau  admitted,  la  foi,  rhonneur,  la  probite,  do 


92  LETTERS   TO  DEAD  AUTHORS 

not  in  Parnassus  avail  the  popular  poet,  and  some 
luckless  Musset  or  The"ophile,  Regnier  or  Villars, 
attains  a  kind  of  immortality  denied  to  the  man 
of  many  contemporary  editions,  and  of  a  great 
commercial  success. 

If  ever,  for  the  confusion  of  Horace,  any  Poet 
-was  Made,  you,  Sir,  should  have  been  that  fortu- 
nately manufactured  article.  You  were,  in  matters 
of  the  Muses,  the  child  of  many  prayers.  Never, 
since  Adam's  day,  have  any  parents  but  yours 
prayed  for  a  poet-child.  Then  Destiny,  that  mocks 
the  desires  of  men  in  general,  and  fathers  in  par- 
ticular, heard  the  appeal,  and  presented  M.  Chape- 
lain  and  Jeanne  Corbiere  his  wife  with  the  future 
author  of  "  La  Pucelle."  Oh  futile  hopes  of  men, 
O  pectora  cczca!  All  was  done  that  education 
could  do  for  a  genius  which,  among  other  quali^ 
ties,  "especially  InrkpH  firft  and  imagination," and 
an  ear  for  verse  —  sad  defects  these  in  a  child  of 
theMusei.  Your  training  in  all  the  mechanics 
and  metaphysics  of  criticism  might  have  made  you 
exclaim,  like  Rasselas,  "  Enough  !  Thou  hast  con- 
vinced me  that  no  human  being  can  ever  be  a 
Poet."  Unhappily,  you  succeeded  in  convincing 
Cardinal  Richelieu  that  to  be  a  Poet  was  well 
within  your  powers,  you  received  a  pension  of  one 
thousand  crowns,  and  were  made  Captain  of  the 
Cardinal's  minstrels,  as  M.  de  Treville  was  Cap- 
tain of  the  King's  Musketeers. 

Ah,  pleasant  age  to  live  in,  when  good  intentions 
in  poetry  were  more  richly  endowed  than  ever 


TO  M,  CHAPELATN  93 

is  Research,  even  Research  in  Prehistoric  Eng- 
lish, among  us  niggard  moderns  !  How  I  wish  I 
knew  a  Cardinal,  or,  even  as  you  did,  a  Prime 
Minister,  who  would  praise  and  pension  me  ;  but 
Envy  be  still!  Your  existence  was  more  happy 
indeed ;  you  constructed  odes,  corrected  sonnets, 
presided  at  the  Hotel  Rambouillet,  while  the 
learned  ladies  were  still  young  and  fair,  and  you 
enjoyed  a  prodigious  celebrity  on  the  score  of  your 
yet  unpublished  Epic.  "Who,  indeed,"  says  a 
sympathetic  author,  M.  Theophile  Gautier,  "  who 
could  expect  less  than  a  miracle  from  a  man  so 
deeply  learned  in  the  laws  of  art  —  a  perfect  Turk 
in  the  science  of  poetry,  a  person  so  well  pen- 
sioned, and  so  favored  by  the  great?  "  Bishops 
and  politicians  combined  in  perfect  good  faith  to 
advertise  your  merits.  Hard  must  have  been/ 
the  heart  that  could  resist  the  testimonials  of  your 
skill  as  a  poet  offered  by  the  Due  de  Montausier, 
and  the  learned  Huet,  Bishop  of  Avranches,  and 
Monseigneur  Godeau,  Bishop  of  Vence,  or  M. 
Colbert,  who  had  such  a  genius  for  finance. 

If  bishops  and  politicians  and  prime  ministers 
skilled  in  finance,  and  some  critics,  Menage  and 
Sarrazin  and  Vaugetas,  if  ladies  of  birth  and  taste, 
if  all  the  world  in  fact,  combined  to  tell  you  that 
you  were  a  great  poet,  how  can  we  blame  you  for 
taking  yourself  seriously,  and  appraising  yourself 
at  the  public  estimate  ? 

It  was  not  in  human  nature  to  resist  the  evi- 
dence of  the  bishops  especially,  and  when  every 


94  LETTERS  TO  DEAD  AUTHORS 

minor  poet  believes  in  himself  on  the  testimony 
of  his  own  conceit,  you  may  be  acquitted  of  vanity 
if  you  listened  to  the  plaudits  of  your  friends. 
Nay,  you  ventured  to  pronounce  judgment  on 
contemporaries  whom  Posterity  has  preferred  to 
your  perfections.  "Moliere,"  said  you,  "under- 
stands the  nature  of  comedy,  and  presents  it  in  a 
natural  style.  The  plot  of  his  best  pieces  is 
borrowed,  but  not  without  judgment ;  his  morale 
is  fair,  and  he  has  only  to  avoid  scurrility." 

Excellent,  unconscious,  popular  Chapelain ! 

Of  yourself  you  observed,  in  a  Report  on  con- 
temporary literature,  that  your  "  courage  and  sin- 
cerity never  allowed  you  to  tolerate  work  not 
absolutely  good."  And  yet  you  regarded  "  La 
Pucelle"  with  some  complacency. 

On  the  "Pucelle"  you  were  occupied  during  a 
generation  of  mortal  men.  I  marvel  not  at  the 
length  of  your  labors,  as  you  received  a  yearly 
pension  till  the  Epic  was  finished,  but  your  Muse 
was  no  Alcmena,  and  no  Hercules  was  the  result 
of  that  prolonged  night  of  creations.  First  you 
gravely  wrote  out  (it  was  the  task  of  five  years) 
all  the  compositions  in  prose.  Ah,  why  did  you 
not  leave  it  in  that  commonplace  but  appropriate 
medium  ?  What  says  the  Pre"cieuse  about  you  in 
Boileau's  satire? 

In  Chapelain,  for  all  his  foes  have  said, 

She  finds  but  one  defect,  he  can't  be  read ; 

Yet  thinks  the  world  might  taste  his  maiden's  woes, 

If  only  he  would  turn  his  verse  to  prose  ! 


TO  M.  CHAPE  LA  IN  95 

The  verse  had  been  prose,  and  prose,  perhaps, 
it  should  have  remained.  Yet  for  this  precious 
"Pucelle,"  in  the  age  when  "Paradise  Lost"  was 
sold  for  five  pounds,  you  are  believed  to  have  re- 
ceived about  four  thousand.  Horace  was  wrong, 
mediocre  poets  may  exist  (now  and  then),  and  he 
was  a  wise  man  who  first  spoke  of  aurea  medio- 
critas.  At  length  the  great  work  was  achieved, 
a  work  thrice  blessed  in  its  theme,  that  divine 
Maiden  to  whom  France  owes  all,  and  whom  you 
and  Voltaire  have  recompensed  so  strangely.  In 
folio,  in  italics,  with  a  score  of  portraits  and  en- 
gravings, and  culs  de  lampe,  the  great  work  was 
given  to  the  world,  and  had  a  success.  Six  edi- 
tions in  eighteen  months  are  figures  which  fill  the 
poetic  heart  with  envy  and  admiration.  And 
then,  alas!  the  bubble  burst.  A  great  lady, 
Madame  de  Longveille,  hearing  the  "Pucelle" 
read  aloud,  murmured  that  it  was  "  perfect  indeed, 
but  perfectly  wearisome."  Then  the  satires  be- 
gan, and  the  satirists  never  left  you  till  your  poetic 
reputation  was  a  rag,  till  the  mildest  Abbe  at 
Menage's  had  his  cheap  sneer  for  Chapelain. 

I  make  no  doubt,  Sir,  that  envy  and  jealousy 
had  much  to  do  with  the  onslaught  on  your 
"  Pucelle."  These  qualities,  alas !  are  not  strange 
to  literary  minds;  does  not  even  Hesiod  tell  us 
that  "potter  hates  potter,  and  poet  hates  poet"? 
But  contemporary  spites  do  not  harm  true  genius. 
Who  suffered  more  than  Moliere  from  cabals? 
Yet  neither  the  court  nor  the  town  ever  deserted 


96  LETTERS   TO  DEAD  AUTHORS 

him,  and  he  is  still  the  joy  of  the  world.  I  admit 
that  his  adversaries  were  weaker  than  yours. 
What  were  Boursault  and  Le  Boulanger  and 
Thomas  Corneille  and  De  Vise,  what  were  they 
all  compared  to  your  enemy,  Boileau  ?  Brossette 
tells  a  story  which  really  makes  a  man  pity  you. 
There  was  a  M.  de  Puimorin  who,  to  be  in  the 
fashion,  laughed  at  your  once  popular  Epic.  "  It 
is  all  very  well  for  a  man  to  laugh  who  cannot 
even  read."  Whereon  M.  de  Puimorin  replied: 
"  Qu'il  n'avoit  que  trop  su  lire,  depuis  que  Chape- 
lain  s'etoit  avise  de  faire  imprimer."  A  new 
horror  had  been  added  to  the  accomplishment 
of  reading  since  Chapelain  had  published.  This 
repartee  was  applauded,  and  M.  de  Puimorin  tried 
to  turn  it  into  an  epigram.  He  did  complete  the 
last  couplet, 

H61as !  pour  mes  peches,  je  n'ai  su  que  trop  lire 
Depuis  que  tu  fais  imprimer. 

But  by  no  labor  would  M.  de  Puimorin  achieve 
the  first  two  lines  of  his  epigram.  Then  you 
remember  what  great  allies  came  to  his  assistance. 
I  almost  blush  to  think  that  M.  Despreaux,  M. 
Racine,  and  M.  de  Moliere,  the  three  most  re- 
nowned wits  of  the  time,  conspired  to  complete 
the  poor  jest,  and  madden  you.  Well,  bubble  as 
your  poetry  was,  you  may  be  proud  that  it  needed 
all  these  sharpest  of  pens  to  prick  the  bubble. 
Other  poets,  as  popular  as  you,  have  been  an- 
nihilated by  an  article.  Macaulay  put  forth  his 


TO  M.  CHAPEL  A  IN  97 

hand,  and  "Satan  Montgomery"  was  no  more. 
It  did  not  need  a  Macaulay,  the  laughter  of  a  mob 
of  little  critics  was  enough  to  blow  you  into  space; 
but  you  probably  have  met  Montgomery,  and 
of  contemporary  failures  or  successes  I  do  not 
speak. 

I  wonder,  sometimes,  whether  the  consensus 
of  criticism  ever  made  you  doubt  for  a  moment 
whether,  after  all,  you  were  not  a  false  child  of 
Apollo  ?  Was  your  complacency  tortured,  as  the 
complacency  of  true  poets  has  occasionally  been, 
by  doubts  ?  Did  you  expect  posterity  to  reverse 
the  verdict  of  the  satirists,  and  to  do  you  justice  ? 
You  answered  your  earliest  assailant,  Liniere, 
and,  by  a  few  changes  of  words,  turned  his  epi- 
grams into  flattery.  But  I  fancy,  on  the  whole, 
you  remained  calm,  unmoved,  wrapped  up  in  ad- 
miration of  yourself.  According  to  M.  de  Mari- 
vaux,  who  reviewed,  as  I  am  doing,  the  spirits  of 
the  mighty  dead,  you  "  conceived,  on  the  strength 
of  your  reputation,  a  great  and  serious  veneration 
for  yourself  and  your  genius."  Probably  you 
were  protected  by  this  invulnerable  armor  of  an 
honest  vanity,  probably  you  declared  that  mere 
jealousy  dictates  the  lines  of  Boileau,  and  that 
Chapelain's  real  fault  was  his  popularity,  and  his 
pecuniary  success, 

Qu'il  soit  le  mieux  rent£  de  tous  les  beaux-esprits. 

This,  you  would  avow,  was  your  offence,  and 
perhaps  you  were  not  altogether  mistaken.  Yet 


98  LETTERS   TO  DEAD  AUTHORS 

posterity  declines  to  read  a  line  of  yours,  and,  as 
we  think  of  you,  we  are  again  set  face  to  face 
with  that  eternal  problem,  how  far  is  popularity 
a  test  of  poetry  ?  Burns  was  a  poet,  and  popular. 
Byron  was  a  popular  poet,  and  the  world  agrees 
in  the  verdict  of  their  own  generation.  But 
Montgomery,  though  he  sold  so  well,  was  no 
poet,  nor,  Sir,  I  fear,  was  your  verse  made  of  the 
stuff  of  immortality.  Criticism  cannot  hurt  what 
is  truly  great ;  the  Cardinal  and  the  Academy  left 
Chimene  as  fair  as  ever,  and  as  adorable.  It  is 
only  pinchbeck  that  perishes  under  the  acids  of 
satire :  gold  defies  them.  Yet  I  sometimes  ask 
myself,  does  the  existence  of  popularity  like  yours 
justify  the  malignity  of  satire,  which  blesses 
neither  him  who  gives,  nor  him  who  takes  ?  Are 
poisoned  arrows  fair  against  a  bad  poet?  I 
doubt  it,  Sir,  holding  that,  even  unpricked,  a 
poetic  bubble  must  soon  burst  by  its  own  nature. 
Yet  satire  will  assuredly  be  written  so  long  as 
bad  poets  are  successful,  and  bad  poets  will  as- 
suredly reflect  that  their  assailants  are  merely 
envious,  and,  while  their  vogue  lasts,  that  Prime 
Ministers  and  the  purchasing  public  are  the  only 
judges. 

Monsieur, 
Votre  tres  humble  serviteur, 

ANDREW  LANG. 


TO 
SIR  JOHN    MAUNDEVILLE,  KT. 


XI 


To   Sir  John   Maundeville,  Kt. 


OF  THE  WAYS   INTO   YNDE 


IR  JOHN,— Wityou  well  that  men  hold- 
en  you  but  light,  and  some  clepen  you  a 
Liar.  And  they  say  that  you  never  were 
born  in  Englond,  in  the  town  of  Seynt 
Albones,  nor  have  seen  and  gone  through  manye 
diverse  Londes.  And  there  goeth  an  old  knight 
at  arms,  and  one  that  connes  Latyn,  and  hath  been 
beyond  the  sea,  and  hath  seen  Prester  John's  coun- 
try. And  he  hath  been  in  an  Yle  that  men  clepen 
Burmah,  and  there  bin  women  bearded.  Now 
men  call  him  Colonel  Henry  Yule,  and  he  hath 
writ  of  thee  in  his  great  booke,  Sir  John,  and  he 
holds  thee  but  lightly.  For  he  saith  that  ye  did 
pill  your  tales  out  of  Odoric  his  book,  and  that  ye 
never  saw  snails  with  shells  as  big  as  houses,  nor 
never  met  no  Devyls,  but  part  of  that  ye  say,  ye 

101 


102  LETTERS   TO  DEAD  AUTHORS 

took  it  out  of  William  of  Boldensele  his  book,  yet 
ye  took  not  his  wisdom,  withal,  but  put  in  thine 
own  foolishness.  Nevertheless,  Sir  John,  for  the 
frailty  of  Mankynde,  ye  are  held  a  good  fellow, 
and  a  merry ;  so  now,  come,  I  shall  tell  you  of  the 
new  ways  into  Ynde. 

In  that  Lond  they  have  a  Queen  that  governeth 
all  the  Lond,  and  all  they  ben  obeyssant  to  her. 
And  she  is  the  Queen  of  Englond ;  for  English- 
men have  taken  all  the  Lond  of  Ynde.  For  they 
were  right  good  werryoures  of  old,  and  wyse,  noble, 
and  worthy.  But  of  late  hath  risen  a  new  sort  of 
Englishman  very  puny  and  fearful,  and  these  men 
clepen  Radicals.  And  they  go  ever  in  fear,  and 
they  scream  on  high  for  dread  in  the  streets  and 
the  houses,  and  they  fain  would  flee  away  from  all 
that  their  fathers  gat  them  with  the  sword.  And 
this  sort  men  call  Scuttleres,  but  the  mean  folk 
and  certain  of  the  womenkind  hear  them  gladly, 
and  they  say  ever  that  Englishmen  should  flee  out 
of  Ynde. 

Fro  Englond  men  gon  to  Ynde  by  many  dyverse 
Contreyes.  For  Englishmen  ben  very  stirring  and 
nymble.  For  they  ben  in  the  seventh  climate,  that 
is  of  the  Moon.  And  the  Moon  (ye  have  said  it 
yourself,  Sir  John,  natheless,  is  it  true)  is  of  lightly 
moving,  for  to  go  diverse  ways,  and  see  strange 
things,  and  other  diversities  of  the  Worlde.  Where- 
fore Englishmen  be  lightly  moving,  and  far  wan- 
dering. And  they  gon  to  Ynde  by  the  great  Sea 
Ocean.  First  come  they  to  Gibraltar,  that  was  the 


TO  SIR  JOHN  MA  UNDEVILLE,  KT.       103 

point  of  Spain,  and  builded  upon  a  rock ;  and  there 
ben  apes,  and  it  is  so  strong  that  no  man  may  take 
it.  Natheless  did  Englishmen  take  it  fro  the  Span- 
yard,  and  all  to  hold  the  way  to  Ynde.  For  ye 
may  sail  all  about  Africa,  and  past  the  Cape  men 
clepen  of  Good  Hope,  but  that  way  unto  Ynde  is 
long  and  the  sea  is  weary.  Wherefore  men  ra- 
ther go  by  the  Midland  sea,  and  Englishmen  have 
taken  many  Yles  in  that  sea. 

For  first  they  have  taken  an  Yle  that  is  clept 
Malta;  and  therein  built  they  great  castles,  to  hold 
it  against  them  of  Fraunce,  and  Italy,  and  of  Spain. 
And  from  this  He  of  Malta  Men  gon  to  Cipre. 
And  Cipre  is  right  a  good  Yle,  and  a  fair,  and  a 
great,  and  it  hath  4  principal  Cytees  within  him. 
And  at  Famagost  is  one  of  the  principal  Havens 
of  the  sea  that  is  in  the  world,  and  Englishmen 
have  but  a  lytel  while  gone  won  that  Yle  from  the 
Sarazynes.  Yet  say  that  sort  of  Englishmen  where 
of  I  told  you,  that  is  puny  and  sore  adread,  that  the 
Lond  is  poisonous  and  barren  and  of  no  avail,  for 
that  Lond  is  much  more  hotter  than  it  is  here. 
Yet  the  Englishmen  that  ben  werryoures  dwell 
there  in  tents,  and  the  skill  is  that  they  may  ben 
the  more  fresh. 

From  Cypre,  Men  gon  to  the  Lond  of  Egypte, 
and  in  a  Day  and  a  Night  he  that  hath  a  good  wind 
may  come  to  the  Haven  of  Alessandrie.  Now  the 
Lond  of  Egypt  longeth  to  the  Soudan,  yet  the  Sou- 
dan longeth  not  to  the  Lond  of  Egypt.  And  when 
I  say  this,  I  do  jape  with  words,  and  may  hap  ye 


104  LETTERS   TO  DEAD  AUTHORS 

understand  me  not.  Now  Englishmen  went  in 
shippes  to  Alessandrie,  and  brent  it,  and  over  ran 
the  Lond,  and  their  soudyours  warred  agen  the 
Bedoynes,  and  all  to  hold  the  way  to  Ynde.  For 
it  is  not  long  past  since  Frenchmen  let  dig  a 
dyke,  through  the  narrow  spit  of  lond,  from  the 
Midland  sea  to  the  Red  sea,  wherein  was  Pharaoh 
drowned.  So  this  is  the  shortest  way  to  Ynde 
there  may  be,  to  sail  through  that  dyke,  if  men 
gon  by  sea. 

But  all  the  Lond  of  Egypt  is  clepen  the  Vale 
enchaunted ;  for  no  man  may  do  his  business  well 
that  goes  thither,  but  always  fares  he  evil,  and 
therefore  clepen  they  Egypt  the  Vale  perilous,  and 
the  sepulchre  of  reputations.  And  men  say  there 
that  is  one  of  the  entrees  of  Helle.  In  that  Vale 
is  plentiful  lack  of  Gold  and  Silver,  for  many  mis- 
believing men,  and  many  Christian  men  also,  have 
gone  often  time  for  to  take  of  the  Thresoure  that 
there  was  of  old,  and  have  pilled  the  Thresoure, 
wherefore  there  is  none  left.  And  Englishmen 
have  let  carry  thither  great  store  of  our  Thresoure, 
9,000,000  of  Pounds  sterling,  and  whether  they  will 
see  it  agen  I  misdoubt  me.  For  that  Vale  is  alle 
fulle  of  Develes  and  Fiendes  that  men  clepen  Bond- 
holderes,  for  that  Egypt  from  of  olde  is  the  Lond 
of  Bondage.  And  whatsoever  Thresoure  cometh 
into  the  Lond,  these  Devyls  of  Bondholders  grab- 
ben  the  same.  Natheless  by  that  Vale  do  English- 
men go  unto  Ynde,  and  they  gon  by  Aden,  even 
to  Kurrachee,  at  the  mouth  of  the  Flood  of  Ynde. 


TO  SIR  JOHN  MAUNDEVILLE,  KT.       105 

Thereby  they  send  their  souldyours,  when  they 
are  adread  of  them  of  Muscovy. 

For,  look  you,  there  is  another  way  into  Ynde, 
and  thereby  the  men  of  Muscovy  are  fain  to  come, 
if  the  Englishmen  let  them  not.  That  way  cometh 
by  Desert  and  Wildernesse,  from  the  sea  that  is 
clept  Caspian,  even  to  Khiva,  and  so  to  Merv;  and 
then  come  ye  to  Zulfikar  and  Penjdeh,  and  anon 
to  Herat,  that  is  called  the  Key  of  the  Gates  of 
Ynde.  Then  ye  win  the  lond  of  the  Emir  of  the 
Afghauns,  a  great  prince  and  a  rich,  and  he  hath 
in  his  Thresoure  more  crosses,  and  stars,  and  coats 
that  captains  wearen,  than  any  other  man  on  earth. 

For  all  they  of  Muscovy,  and  ail  Englishmen 
maken  him  gifts,  and  he  keepeth  the  gifts,  and  he 
keepeth  his  own  counsel.  For  his  lond  lieth  be- 
tween Ynde  and  the  folk  of  Muscovy,  wherefore 
both  Englishmen  and  men  of  Muscovy  would  fain 
have  him  friendly,  yea,  and  independent.  Where- 
fore they  of  both  parties  give  him  clocks,  and 
watches,  and  stars,  and  crosses,  and  culverins,  and 
now  and  again  they  let  cut  the  throats  of  his  men 
some  deal,  and  pill  his  country.  Thereby  they 
both  set  up  their  rest  that  the  Emir  will  be  inde- 
pendent, yea,  and  friendly.  But  his  men  love  him 
not,  neither  love  they  the  English,  nor  the  Muscovy 
folk,  for  they  are  worshippers  of  Mahound,  and  en- 
dure not  Christian  men.  And  they  love  not  them 
that  cut  their  throats,  and  burn  their  country. 

Now  they  of  Muscovy  ben  Devyls,  and  they  ben 
subtle  for  to  make  a  thing  seme  otherwise  than  it 


106  LETTERS  TO  DEAD  AUTHORS 

is,  for  to  deceive  mankind.  Wherefore  English- 
men putten  no  trust  in  them  of  Muscovy,  save 
only  the  Englishmen  clept  Radicals,  for  they  make 
as  if  they  loved  these  Develes,  out  of  the  fear  and 
dread  of  war  wherein  they  go,  and  would  be  slaves 
sooner  than  fight.  But  the  folk  of  Ynde  know 
not  what  shall  befall,  nor  whether  they  of  Mus- 
covy will  take  the  Lond,  or  Englishmen  shall  keep 
it,  so  that  their  hearts  may  not  enduren  for  drede. 
And  methinks  that  soon  shall  Englishmen  and 
Muscovy  folk  put  their  bodies  in  adventure,  and 
war  one  with  another,  and  all  for  the  way  to 
Ynde. 

But  St.  George  for  Englond,  I  say,  and  so 
enough ;  and  may  the  Seyntes  hele  thee,  Sir  John, 
of  thy  Gowtes  Artetykes,  that  thee  tormenten. 
But  to  thy  Boke  I  list  not  to  give  no  credence. 


TO   ALEXANDRE    DUMAS 


XII 


To  Alexandre  Dumas 


IR, — There  are  moments  when  the 
wheels  of  life,  even  of  such  a  life  as  yours, 
run  slow,  and  when  mistrust  and  doubt 
overshadow  even  the  most  intrepid  dis- 
position. In  such  a  moment,  towards  the  ending 
of  your  days,  you  said  to  your  son,  M.  Alexandre 
Dumas,  "  I  seem  to  see  myself  set  on  a  pedestal 
which  trembles  as  if  it  were  founded  on  the  sands." 
These  sands,  your  uncounted  volumes,  are  all  of 
gold,  and  make  a  foundation  more  solid  than  the 
rock.  As  well  might  the  singer  of  Odysseus,  or 
the  authors  of  the  "  Arabian  Nights,"  or  the  first 
inventors  of  the  stories  of  Boccaccio,  believe  that 
their  works  were  perishable  (their  names,  indeed, 
have  perished),  as  the  creator  of  "  Les  Trois 
Mousquetaires  "  alarm  himself  with  the  thought 
that  the  world  could  ever  forget  Alexandre  Dumas. 
109 


no  LETTERS   TO  DEAD  AUTHORS 

Than  yours  there  has  been  no  greater  nor  more 
kindly  and  beneficent  force  in  modern  letters.  To 
Scott,  indeed,  you  owed  the  first  impulse  of  your 
genius;  but,  once  set  in  motion,  what  miracles 
could  it  not  accomplish  ?  Our  dear  Porthos  was 
overcome,  at  last,  by  a  superhuman  burden ;  but 
your  imaginative  strength  never  found  a  task  too 
great  for  it.  What  an  extraordinary  vigor,  what 
health,  what  an  overflow  of  force  was  yours !  It 
is  good,  in  a  day  of  small  and  laborious  ingenui- 
ties, to  breathe  the  free  air  of  your  books,  and 
dwell  in  the  company  of  Dumas's  men  —  so  gal- 
lant, so  frank,  so  indomitable,  such  swordsmen, 
and  such  trenchermen.  Like  M.  de  Rochefort  in 
"  Vingt  Ans  Apres,"  like  that  prisoner  of  the  Bas- 
tille, your  genius  "  n'est  que  d'un  parti,  c'est  du 
parti  du  grand  air." 

There  seems  to  radiate  from  you  a  still  persist- 
ent energy  and  enjoyment ;  in  that  current  of 
strength  not  only  your  characters  live,  frolic, 
kindly,  and  sane,  but  even  your  very  collabora- 
tors were  animated  by  the  virtue  which  went  out 
of  you.  How  else  can  we  explain  it,  the  dreary 
charge  which  feeble  and  envious  tongues  have 
brought  against  you,  in  England  and  at  home  ? 
They  say  you  employed  in  your  novels  and  dramas 
that  vicarious  aid  which,  in  the  slang  of  the  studio, 
the  "  sculptor's  ghost  "  is  fabled  to  afford. 

Well,  let  it  be  so;  these  ghosts,  when  unin- 
spired by  you,  were  faint  and  impotent  as  "the 
strengthless  tribes  of  the  dead"  in  Homer's 


TO  ALEX  ANDRE  DUMAS  HI 

Hades,  before  Odysseus  had  poured  forth  the 
blood  that  gave  them  a  momentary  valor.  It 
was  from  you  and  your  inexhaustible  vitality  that 
these  collaborating  spectres  drew  what  life  they 
possessed;  and  when  they  parted  from  you  they 
shuddered  back  into  their  nothingness.  Where 
are  the  plays,  where  the  romances  which  Maquet 
and  the  rest  wrote  in  their  own  strength  ?  They 
are  forgotten  with  last  year's  snows  ;  they  have 
passed  into  the  wide  waste-paper  basket  of  the 
world.  You  say  of  D'Artagnan,  when  severed 
from  his  three  friends  —  from  Porthos,  Athos, 
and  Aramis  —  "he  felt  that  he  could  do  nothing, 
save  on  the  condition  that  each  of  these  com- 
panions yielded  to  him,  if  one  may  so  speak,  a 
share  of  that  electric  fluid  which  was  his  gift 


No  man  of  letters  ever  had  so  great  a  measure  > 
of  that  gift  as  you;  none  gave  of  it  more  freely  to 
all  who  came  —  to  the  chance  associate  of  the 
hour,  as  to  the  characters,  all  so  burly  and  full- 
blooded,  who  flocked  from  your  brain.  Thus  it 
was  that  you  failed  when  you  approached  the 
supernatural.  Your  ghosts  had  too  much  flesh 
and  blood,  more  than  the  living  persons  of  feebler 
fancies.  A  writer  so  fertile,  so  rapid,  so  masterly 
in  the  ease  with  which  he  worked,  could  not  es- 
cape the  reproaches  of  barren  envy.  Because 
you  overflowed  with  wit,  you  could  not  be 
"  serious  "  ;  because  you  created  with  a  word, 
you  were  said  to  scamp  your  work  ;  because  you 


ii2  LETTERS   TO  DEAD  AUTHORS 

were  never  dull,  never  pedantic,  incapable  of 
greed,  you  were  to  be  censured  as  desultory,  in- 
accurate, and  prodigal. 

A  generation  suffering  from  mental  and  phys- 
ical ansemia — a  generation  devoted  to  the  "chis- 
elled phrase,"  to  accumulated  "documents,"  to 
microscopic  porings  over  human  baseness,  to  mi- 
nute and  disgustful  records  of  what  in  humanity 
is  least  human — may  readily  bring  these  un- 
regarded and  railing  accusations.  Like  one  of 
the  great  and  good-humored  Giants  of  Rabelais, 
you  may  hear  the  murmurs  from  afar,  and  smile 
with  disdain.  To  you,  who  can  amuse  the  world 
—  to  you  who  offer  it  the  fresh  air  of  the  high- 
way, the  battle-field,  and  the  sea — the  world  must 
always  return :  escaping  gladly  from  the  boudoirs 
and  the  bouges,  from  the  surgeries  and  hospitals, 
and  dead-rooms,  of  M.  Daudet  and  M.  Zola  and 
of  the  wearisome  De  Goncourt. 

With  all  your  frankness,  and  with  that  queer 
morality  of  the  Camp  which,  if  it  swallows  a 
camel  now  and  again,  never  strains  at  a  gnat, 
how  healthy  and  wholesome,  and  even  pure,  are 
your  romances !  You  never  gloat  over  sin,  nor 
dabble  with  an  ugly  curiosity  in  the  corruptions 
of  sense.  The  passions  in  your  tales  are  honor- 
able and  brave,  the  motives  are  clearly  human. 
Honor,  Love,  Friendship  make  the  threefold 
cord,  the  clew  your  knights  and  dames  follow 
through  how  delightful  a  labyrinth  of  adventures ! 
Your  greatest  books,  I  take  the  liberty  to  main- 


TO  ALEXANDRE  DUMAS  113 

tain,  are  the  Cycle  of  the  Valois  ("  La  Reine 
Margot,"  "  La  Dame  de  Montsoreau,"  "  Les  Qua- 
rante-cinq  "),  and  the  Cycle  of  Louis  Treize  and 
Louis  Quatorze  ("  Les  Trois  Mousquetaires," 
"  Vingt  Ans  Apres,"  "  Le  Vicomte  de  Brage- 
lonne");  and,  beside  these  two  trilogies  —  a 
lonely  monument,  like  the  sphinx  hard  by  the 
three  pyramids — "Monte  Cristo." 

In  these  romances  how  easy  it  would  haye  been 
for^  you  to  burn  incensetQ  that  great  Goddess, 
Ldlhricityv-whom  our  critic  says  your  people  wor- 
ship. You  had  Brant6me,  you  had  Tallemant, 
you  had  Retif,  and  a  dozen  others,  to  furnish  ma- 
terials for  scenes  of  voluptuousness  and  of  blood 
that  would  have  outdone  even  the  present  natural- 
istes.  From  these  alcoves _of  "Les  Dames  Ga- 
lantes,"  and_jroni-lhe  torture-chambers  (M.  Zola 
\ac\\\\^c\c^\:^^^^r^  US  one  starting  sinew  of 
brave  La_Mole  on  the  rack),  you  turned  as  Scott 
v^rouM  have  turned,  without  a  thought  of  their 
profitable  literary  uses.  You  had  other  metal  to 
work  on ;  you  gave  us  that  superstitious  and  trag- 
ical true  love  of  La  Mole's,  that  devotion  —  how 
tender  and  how  pure  !  — of  Bussy  for  the  Dame 
de  Montsoreau.  You  gave  us  the  valor  of  D'Ar- 
tagnan,  the  strength  of  Porthos,  the  melancholy 
nobility  of  Athos ;  Honor,  Chivalry,  and  Friend- 
ship. I  declare  your  characters  are  real  people  to 
me  and  old  friends.  I  cannot  bear  to  read  the  end 
of  "  Bragelonne,"  and  to  part  with  them  forever. 
"  Suppose  Porthos,  Athos,  and  Aramis  should  en- 


u4          LETTERS   TO  DEAD  AUTHORS 

ter  with  a  noiseless  swagger,  curling  their  mous- 
taches. "  How  we  would  welcome  them,  forgiving 
D'Artagnan  even  his  hateful  fourberie  in  the  case 
of  Milady.  The  brilliance  of  your  dialogue  has 
TTpyprJyen  approached :  there  is  wit  everywhere^ 
repartees  glif^  3r»d  ring  like  the  flash  and  clink 
of  small-swords.  -Then  wnat  duels  are  yours !  and 
what  inimitable  battle-pieces  !  I  know  four  good 
fights  of  one  against  a  multitude,  in  literature. 
These  are  the  Death  of  Gretir  the  Strong,  the  Death 
of  Gunnar  of  Lithend,  the  Death  of  Hereward  the 
Wake,  the  Death  of  Bussy  d'Amboise.  We  can 
compare  the  strokes  of  the  heroic  fighting- times  with 
those  described  in  later  days ;  and,  upon  my  word, 
I  do  not  know  that  the  short  sword  of  Gretir,  or 
the  bill  of  Skarphedin,  or  the  bow  of  Gunnar  was 
better  wielded  than  the  rapier  of  your  Bussy,  or  the 
sword  and  shield  of  Kingsley's  Hereward. 

They  say  your  fencing  is  unhistorical ;  no  doubt 
it  is  so,  and  you  knew  it.  La  Mole  could  not  have 
lunged  on  Coconnas  "  after  deceiving  circle  " ;  for 
the  parry  was  not  invented  except  by  your  immor- 
tal Chicot,  a  genius  in  advance  of  his  time.  Even 
so  Hamlet  and  Laertes  would  have  fought  with 
shields  and  axes,  not  with  small-swords.  But 
what  matters  this  pedantry  ?  In  your  works  we 
hear  the  Homeric  Muse  again,  rejoicing  in  the 
clash  of  steel;  and  even,  at  times,  your  very 
phrases  are  unconsciously  Homeric. 

Look  at  these  men  of  murder,  on  the  Eve  of 
St.  Bartholomew,  who  flee  in  terror  from  the 


TO  ALEXANDRE  DUMAS  115 

Queen's  chamber,  and  "  find  the  door  too  narrow 
for  their  flight  "  :  the  very  words  were  anticipated 
in  a  line  of  the  "  Odyssey  "  concerning  the  massa- 
cre of  the  Wooers.  And  the  picture  of  Catherine  de 
Medicis,  prowling  "  like  a  wolf  among  the  bodies 
and  the  blood,"  in  a  passage  of  the  Louvre  —  the 
picture  is  taken  unwittingly  from  the  "Iliad." 
There  was  in  yo"  tliat  rfSfTYg^of  primitive  force, 
that  epic  grandeur  and  simplicity  of  diction.  This 
is  the  force  that  animates  "  Monte  Cristo,"  the 
earlier  chapters,  the  prison,  and  the  escape.  In 
later  volumes  of  that  romance,  methinks,  you  stoop 
your  wing.  Of  your  dramas  I  have  little  room, 
and  less  skill,  to  speak.  "  Antony,"  they  tell  me, 
was  "  the  greatest  literary  event  of  its  time,"  was 
a  restoration  of  the  stage.  "  While  Victor  Hugo 
needs  the  cast-off  clothes  of  history,  the  wardrobe 
and  costume,  the  sepulchre  of  Charlemagne,  the 
ghost  of  Barbarossa,  the  coffins  of  Lucretia  Borgia, 
Alexandre  Dumas  requires  no  more  than  a  room  i 
in  an  inn,  where  people  meet  in  riding-  cloaks,  to  I 
move  the  soul  with  the  last  degree  of  terror  and  I 


The  reproach  of  being  amusing  has  somewhat 
dimmed  your  fame  —  for  a  moment.  The  shadow 
of  this  tyranny  will  soon  be  overpast  ;  and  when 
"  La  Cure*e  "  and  "  Pot-Bouille  "  are  more  forgot- 
ten than  "  Le  Grand  Cyrus,"  men  and  women  — 
and,  above  all,  boys  —  will  laugh  and  weep  over 
the  page  of  Alexandre  Dumas.  Like  Scott  him- 
self, you  took  us  captive  in  our  childhood.  I  re- 


n6  LETTERS   TO  DEAD  AUTHORS 

member  a  very  idle  little  boy  who  was  busy  with 
the  "  Three  Musketeers  "  when  he  should  have 
been  occupied  with  "Wilkins's  Latin  Prose." 
"  Twenty  years  after  "  (alas  and  more)  he  is  still 
constant  to  that  gallant  company ;  and,  at  this  very 
moment,  is  breathlessly  wondering  whether  Gri- 
maud  will  steal  M.  de  Beaufort  out  of  the  Car- 
dinal's prison. 


TO  THEOCRITUS 


XIII 


To  Theocritus 


WEET,  methinks,  is  the  whispering 
sound  of  yonder  pine-tree,"  so,  Theoc- 
ritus, with  that  sweet  word  dSv,  didst 
thou  begin  and  strike  the  key-note  of 
thy  songs.  "  Sweet,"  and  didst  thou  find  aught 
of  sweet,  when  thou,  like  thy  Daphnis,  didst  "  go 
down  the  stream,  when  the  whirling  wave  closed 
over  the  man  the  Muses  loved,  the  man  not  hated 
of  the  Nymphs  "  ?  Perchance  below  those  waters 
of  death  thou  didst  find,  like  thine  own  Hylas,  the 
lovely  Nereids  waiting  thee,  Eunice,  and  Malis, 
and  Nycheia  with  her  April  eyes.  In  the  House 
of  Hades,  Theocritus,  doth  there  dwell  aught  that 
is  fair,  and  can  the  low  light  on  the  fields  of  asphodel 
make  thee  forget  thy  Sicily  ?  Nay,  methinks  thou 
hast  not  forgotten,  and  perchance  for  poets  dead 
there  is  prepared  a  place  more  beautiful  than  their 
119 


120          LETTERS  TO  DEAD  AUTHORS 

dreams.  It  was  well  for  the  later  minstrels  of  an 
other  day,  it  was  well  for  Ronsard  and  Du  Bella) 
to  desire  a  dim  Elysium  of  their  own,  where  the 
sunlight  comes  faintly  through  the  shadow  of  the 
earth,  where  the  poplars  are  duskier,  and  the  wa- 
ters more  pale  than  in  the  meadows  of  Anjou. 

There,  in  that  restful  twilight,  far  remote  from 
war  and  plot,  from  sword  and  fire,  and  from  re- 
ligions that  sharpened  the  steel  and  lit  the  torch, 
there  these  learned  singers  would  fain  have  wan- 
dered with  their  learned  ladies,  satiated  with  life  and 
in  love  with  an  unearthly  quiet.  But  to  thee,  The- 
ocritus, no  twilight  of  the  Hollow  Land  was  dear, 
but  the  high  suns  of  Sicily  and  the  brown  cheeks 
of  the  country  maidens  were  happiness  enough. 
For  thee,  therefore,  methinks,  surely  is  reserved 
an  Elysium  beneath  the  summer  of  a  far-off  sys- 
tem, with  stars  not  ours  and  alien  seasons.  There, 
as  Bion  prayed,  shall  Spring,  the  thrice  desirable, 
be  with  thee  the  whole  year  through,  where  there 
is  neither  frost,  nor  is  the  heat  so  heavy  on  men, 
but  all  is  fruitful,  and  all  sweet  things  blossom, 
and  evenly  meted  are  darkness  and  dawn.  Space 
is  wide,  and  there  be  many  worlds,  and  suns  enow, 
and  the  Sun-god  surely  has  had  a  care  of  his  own. 
Little  didst  thou  need,  in  thy  native  land,  the  isle 
of  the  three  capes,  little  didst  thou  need  but  sun- 
light on  land  and  sea.  Death  can  have  shown  thee 
naught  dearer  than  the  fragrant  shadow  of  the 
pines,  where  the  dry  needles  of  the  fir  are  strewn, 
or  glades  where  feathered  ferns  make  "a  couch 


TO   THEOCRITUS  121 

more  soft  than  Sleep."  The  short  grass  of  the 
cliffs,  too,  thou  didst  love,  where  thou  wouldst  lie, 
and  watch,  with  the  tunny  watcher  till  the  deep 
blue  sea  was  broken  by  the  burnished  sides  of 
the  tunny  shoal,  and  afoam  with  their  gambols  in 
the  brine.  There  the  Muses  met  thee,  and  the 
Nymphs,  and  there  Apollo,  remembering  his  old 
thraldom  with  Admetus,  would  lead  once  more  a 
mortal's  flocks,  and  listen  and  learn,  Theocritus, 
while  thou,  like  thine  own  Comatas, "  didst  sweetly 
sing." 

There,  methinks,  I  see  thee  as  in  thy  happy 
days,  "  reclined  on  deep  beds  of  fragrant  lentisk, 
lowly  strewn,  and  rejoicing  in  new  stript  leaves 
of  the  vine,  while  far  above  thy  head  waved  many 
a  poplar,  many  an  elm-tree,  and  close  at  hand  the 
sacred  waters  sang  from  the  mouth  of  the  cavern 
of  the  nymphs. "  And  when  night  came,  methinks 
thou  wouldst  flee  from  the  merry  company  and 
the  dancing  girls,  from  the  fading  crowns  of  roses 
or  white  violets,  from  the  cottabos,  and  the  min- 
strelsy, and  the  Bibline  wine,  from  these  thou 
wouldst  slip  away  into  the  summer  night.  Then 
the  beauty  of  life  and  of  the  summer  would  keep 
thee  from  thy  couch,  and  wandering  away  from 
Syracuse  by  the  sand-hills  and  the  sea,  thou  wouldst 
watch  the  low  cabin,  roofed  with  grass,  where  the 
fishing-rods  of  reed  were  leaning  against  the  door, 
while  the  Mediterranean  floated  up  her  waves,  and 
filled  the  waste  with  sound.  There  didst  thou  see 
thine  ancient  fishermen  rising  ere  the  dawn  from 


122  LETTERS   TO  DEAD  AUTHORS 

their  bed  of  dry  sea-weed,  and  heardst  them  stir- 
ring, drowsy,  among  their  fishing-gear,  and  heardst 
them  tell  their  dreams. 

Or  again  thou  wouldst  wander  with  dusty  feet 
through  the  ways  that  the  dust  makes  silent,  while 
the  breath  of  the  kine,  as  they  were  driven  forth 
with  the  morning,  came  fresh  to  thee,  and  the 
trailing  dewy  branch  of  honeysuckle  struck  sud- 
den on  thy  cheek.  Thou  wouldst  see  the  Dawn 
awake  in  rose  and  saffron  across  the  waters,  and 
Etna,  gray  and  pale  against  the  sky,  and  the  set- 
ting crescent  would  dip  strangely  in  the  glow,  on 
her  way  to  the  sea.  Then,  methinks,  thou  wouldst 
murmur,  like  thine  own  Simaetha,  the  love-lorn 
witch,  "  Farewell,  Selene,  bright  and  fair ;  fare- 
well, ye  other  stars,  that  follow  the  wheels  of  the 
quiet  Night."  Nay,  surely  it  was  in  such  an  hour 
that  thou  didst  behold  the  girl  as  she  burned  the 
laurel  leaves  and  the  barley  grain,  and  melted  the 
waxen  image,  and  called  on  Selene  to  bring  her 
lover  home.  Even  so,  even  now,  in  the  islands  of 
Greece,  the  setting  Moon  may  listen  to  the  prayers 
of  maidens.  "  Bright  golden  Moon,  that  now  art 
near  the  waters,  go  thou  and  salute  my  lover,  he 
that  stole  my  love,  and  that  kissed  me,  saying 
'Never  will  I  leave  thee.'  And  lo,  he  hath  left 
me  as  men  leave  a  field  reaped  and  gleaned,  like 
a  church  where  none  cometh  to  pray,  like  a  city 
desolate." 

So  the  girls  still  sing  in  Greece,  for  though  the 
Temples  have  fallen,  and  the  wandering  shepherds 


TO   THEOCRITUS  123 

sleep  beneath  the  broken  columns  of  the  god's 
house  in  Selinus,  yet  these  ancient  fires  burn  still 
to  the  old  divinities  in  the  shrines  of  the  hearths 
of  the  peasants.  It  is  none  of  the  new  creeds  that 
cry,  in  the  dirge  of  the  Sicilian  shepherds  of  our 
time,  "Ah,  light  of  mine  eyes,  what  gift  shall  I 
send  thee,  what  offering  to  the  other  world  ?  The 
apple  fadeth,  the  quince  decayeth,  and  one  by  one 
they  perish,  the  petals  of  the  rose.  I  will  send 
thee  my  tears  shed  on  a  napkin,  and  what  though 
it  burneth  in  the  flame,  if  my  tears  reach  thee  at 
the  last." 

Yes,  little  is  altered,  Theocritus,  on  these  shores 
beneath  the  sun,  where  thou  didst  wear  a  tawny 
skin  stripped  from  the  roughest  of  he-goats,  and 
about  thy  breast  an  old  cloak  buckled  with  a 
plaited  belt.  Thou  wert  happier  there,  in  Sicily, 
methinks,  and  among  vines  and  shadowy  lime- 
trees  of  Cos,  than  in  the  dust,  and  heat,  and  noise 
of  Alexandria.  What  love  of  fame,  what  lust  of  gold 
tempted  thee  away  from  the  red  cliffs,  and  gray 
olives,  and  wells  of  black  water  wreathed  with 
maidenhair  ? 

The  music  of  thy  rustic  flute 
Kept  not  for  long  its  happy  country  tone ; 

Lost  it  too  soon,  and  learned  a  stormy  note 
Of  men  contention  tost,  of  men  who  groan, 
Which  tasked  thy  pipe  too  sore,  and  tired  thy  throat— 
It  failed,  and  thou  wast  mute ! 

What  hadst  thou  to  make  in  cities,  and  what 
could  Ptolemies  and  Princes  give  thee  better  than 


i24  LETTERS   TO  DEAD  AUTHORS 

the  goat-milk  cheese  and  the  Ptelean  wine?  Thy 
Muses  were  meant  to  be  the  delight  of  peaceful 
men,  not  of  tyrants  and  wealthy  merchants,  to 
whom  they  vainly  went  on  a  begging  errand. 
"  Who  will  open  his  door  and  gladly  receive  our 
Muses  within  his  house,  who  is  there  that  will  not 
send  them  back  again  without  a  gift  ?  And  they 
with  naked  feet  and  looks  askance  come  home- 
wards, and  sorely  they  upbraid  me  when  they 
have  gone  on  a  vain  journey,  and  listless  again  in 
the  bottom  of  their  empty  coffer  they  dwell  with 
heads  bowed  over  their  chilly  knees,  where  is 
their  drear  abode,  when  portionless  they  return." 
How  far  happier  was  the  prisoned  goatherd, 
Comatas,  in  the  fragrant  cedar  chest  where  the 
blunt-faced  bees  from  the  meadow  fed  him  with 
food  of  tender  flowers,  because  still  the  Muse 
dropped  sweet  nectar  on  his  lips  ! 

Thou  didst  leave  the  neatherds  and  the  kine, 
and  the  oaks  of  Himera,  the  galingale  hummed 
over  by  the  bees,  and  the  pine  that  dropped  her 
cones,  and  Amaryllis  in  her  cave,  and  Bombyca 
with  her  feet  of  carven  ivory.  Thou  soughtest 
the  City,  and  strife  with  other  singers,  and  the 
learned  write  still  on  thy  quarrels  with  Apollonius 
and  Callimachus,  and  Antagoras  of  Rhodes.  So 
ancient  are  the  hatreds  of  poets,  envy,  jealousy, 
and  all  unkindness. 

Not  to  thejwits  of  Courts  couldst  thou  teach 
tjiy  rural  song,  though  all  these  centuries,  more 
than  two  thousand  years,  they  have  labored  to  vie 


TO   THEOCRITUS  125 

with  thee.  There  has^come  no  new  pastoral  poet, 
though  Virgil  copied  thee,  and  Pojx^and. Phillips*. 
and  all  the  buckram  band  of  thf  teamp  HTTVP;  and 
all  the  modish  swains  of  France  have  sung  against 
thee,  as  the  son  challenged  Athene.  They  never 
knew  the  shepherd's  life,  the  long  winter  nights 
on  dried  heather  by  the  fire,  the  long  summer 
days,  when  over  the  dry  grass  all  is  quiet,  and 
only  the  insects  hum,  and  the  shrunken  burn 
whispers  a  silver  tune.  Swains  in  high-heeled 
shoon,  and  lace,  shepherdesses  in  rouge  and 
diamonds,  the  world  is  weary  of  all  concerning 
them,  save  their  images  in  porcelain,  effigies  how 
unlike  the  golden  figures,  dedicate  to  Aphrodite, 
of  Bombyca  and  Battus.  Somewhat^  TheocritusT 
thou  hast  to  answer  for,  thou  that  first  of  men 
brought  the  shepherd  to  Court,  and  made  courtiers 
wild  to  go  a  Maying~with  the  shepherds. 


TO   EDGAR  ALLAN   POE 


XIV 


To  Edgar  Allan  Poe 


jjIR, —  Your  English  readers,  better  ac- 
quainted with  your  poems  and  ro- 
mances than  with  your  criticisms,  have 
long  wondered  at  the  indefatigable  ha- 
tred which  pursues  your  memory.  You,  who 
knew  the  men,  will  not  marvel  that  certain  mi- 
crobes of  letters,  the  survivors  of  your  own 
generation,  still  harass  your  name  with  their 
malevolence,  while  old  women  twitter  out  their 
incredible  and  heeded  slanders  in  the  literary 
papers  of  New  York.  But  their  persistent  ani- 
mosity does  not  quite  suffice  to  explain  the  dislike 
with  which  many  American  critics  regard  the* 
greatest  poet,  perhaps  the  ^reatest^  literary  genius,! 
of  their  country.  With  a  commendable  patriot-' 
ism,  they  are  not  apt  to  rate  native  merit  too  low; 
and  you,  I  think,  are  the  only  example  of  an 
129 


1 30  LETTERS   TO  DEAD  AUTHORS 

American  prophet  almost  without  honor  in  his 
own  country. 

The  recent  publication  of  a  cold,  careful,  and 
in  many  respects  admirable  study  of  your  career 
("Edgar  Allan  Poe,"  by  George  Woodberry; 
Houghton,  Mifflin  &  Co.,  Boston)  reminds  Eng- 
lish readers  who  have  forgotten  it,  and  teaches 
those  who  never  knew  it,  that  you  were,  un- 
fortunately, a  Reviewer.  How  unhappy  were 
the  necessities,  how  deplorable  the  vein,  that 
compelled  or  seduced  a  man  of  your  eminence 
into  the  dusty  and  stony  ways  of  contemporary 
criticism  !  Ahnnj  f]ip  writers  of  his  own  genera- 
tionaleader  of  that  generation  should  hold  his 
peace.  He  should  neither  praise  nor  blame  nor 
defend  his  equals;  he  should  not  strike  one  blow 
at  the  buzzing  ephemerae  of  letters.  The  breath 
of  their  life  is  in  the  columns  of  "Literary 
Gossip  " ;  and  they  should  be  allowed  to  perish 
with  the  weekly  advertisements  on  which  they 
pasture.  Reviewing,  nf  rrmrsp,  th^rp  must  needs 
be:  but  great  minds  should  only  criticize  the 
preat  who  have  passed  beyond  the  reach  of  eulogy 
or  fault-finding^ 

Unhappily,  taste  and  circumstances  combined 
to  make  you  a  censor;  you  vexed  a  continent, 
and  you  are  still  unforgiven.  What  "  irritation  of 
a  sensitive  nature,  chafed  by  some  indefinite  sense 
of  wrong,"  drove  you  (in  Mr.  Longfellow's  own 
words)  to  attack  his  pure  and  beneficent  Muse  we 
may  never  ascertain.  But  Mr.  Longfellow  for- 


TO  EDGAR  ALLAN  POE  131 

gave  you  easily;  for  pardon  comes  easily  to  the 
great.  It  was  the  smaller  men,  the  Daweses, 
Griswolds,  and  the  like,  that  knew  not  how  to 
forget.  "The  New  Yorkers  never  forgave  him," 
says  your  latest  biographer;  and  one  scarcely 
marvels  at  the  inveteracy  of  their  malice.  It  was 
not  individual  vanity  alone,  but  the  whole  literary 
class  that  you  assailed.  "  As  a  literary  people," 
you  wrote,  "  we  are  one  vast  perambulating  hum- 
bug." After  that  declaration  of  war  you  died, 
and  left  your  reputation  to  the  vanities  yet  writh- 
ing beneath  your  scorn.  They  are  writhing  and 
writing  still.  He  who  knows  them  need  not 
linger  over  the  attacks  and  defences  of  your 
personal  character;  he  will  not  waste  time  on 
calumnies,  tale-bearing,  private  letters,  and  all 
the  noisome  dust  which  takes  so  long  in  settling 
above  your  tomb. 

For  us  it  is  enough  to  know  that  you  were 
compelled  to  live  by  your  pen,  and  that  in  an  age 
when  the  author  of  "  To  Helen  "  and  "  The  Cask 
of  Amontillado  "  was  paid  at  the  rate  of  a  dollar 
a  column.  When  such  poverty  was  the  mate  of 
such  pride  as  yours,  a  misery  more  deep  than 
that  of  Burns,  an  agony  longer  than  Chatterton's, 
were  inevitable  and  assured.  No  man  was  less 
fortunate  than  you  in  the  moment  of  his  birth  — 
infelix  opportunitate  vita;.  Had  you  lived  a  gen- 
eration later,  honor,  wealth,  applause,  success  in 
Europe  and  at  home,  would  all  have  been  yours. 
Within  thirty  years  so  great  a  change  has  passed 


i32  LETTERS   TO  DEAD  AUTHORS 

over  the  profession  of  letters  in  America;  and  it 
is  impossible  to  estimate  the  rewards  which  would 
have  fallen  to  Edgar  Poe,  had  chance  made  him 
the  contemporary  of  Mark  Twain  and  of  "  Called 
Back."  It  may  be  that  your  criticisms  helped  to 
bring  in  the  new  era,  and  to  lift  letters  out  of  the 
reach  of  quite  unlettered  scribblers.  Though  not 
a  scholar,  at  least  you  had  a  respect  for  scholar- 
ship. You  might  still  marvel  over  such  words  as 
"  objectkmal "  in  the  new  biography  of  yourself, 
and  might  ask  what  is  meant  by  such  a  sentence  as 
"his  connection  with  it  had  inured  to  his  own  bene- 
fit by  the  frequent  puffs  of  himself,"  and  so  forth. 

Best  known  in  your  own  day  as  a  critic,  it  is  as 
a  poet  and  a  writer  of  short  tales  that  you  must 
live.  But  to  discuss  your  few  and  elaborate 
poems  is  a  waste  of  time,  so  completely  does  your 
own  brief  definition  of  poetry,  "the  rhythmic 
creation  of  the  beautiful,"  exhaust  your  theory, 
and  so  perfectly  is  the  theory  illustrated  by  the 
poems.  Natural  bent,  and  reaction  against  the 
example  of  Mr.  Longfellow,  combined  to  make 
you  too  intolerant  of  what  you  call  the  "didactic" 
element  in  verse.  Even  if  morality  be  not  seven- 
eighths  of  our  life  (the  exact  proportion  as  at 
present  estimated),  there  was  a  place  even  on  the 
Hellenic  Parnassus  for  gnomic  bards,  and  theirs 
in  the  nature  of  the  case  must  always  be  the 
largest  public. 

"  Music  is  the  perfection  of  the  soul  or  the  idea 
of  poetry,"  so  you  wrote;  "the  vagueness  of  ex- 


TO  EDGAR  ALLAN  POE  133 

altation  aroused  by  a  sweet  air  (which  should  be 
indefinite  and  never  too  strongly  suggestive),  is 
precisely  what  we  should  aim  at  in  poetry."  You 
aimed  at  that  mark,  and  struck  it  again  and  again, 
notably  in  "  Helen,  thy  beauty  is  to  me,"  in  "The 
Haunted  Palace,"  "The  Valley  of  Unrest,"  and 
"The  City  in  the  Sea."  But  by  some  Nemesis 
which  might,  perhaps,  have  been  foreseen,  you  are, 
to  the  world,  the  poet  of  one  poem  — "  The  Raven  " : 
a  piece  in  which  the  music  is  highly  artificial,  and 
the  "  exaltation  "  (what  there  is  of  it)  by  no  means 
particularly  "  vague."  So  a  portion  of  the  public 
know  little  of  Shelley  but  the  "  Skylark,"  and  those 
two  incongruous  birds,  the  lark  and  the  raven, 
bear  each  of  them  a  poet's  name  vivu  per  ora 
vinim.  Your  theory  c^j^e\r^^^c^^A^  would 
Kubla  KkanI!)JLhe 


forempstof  the  poets  of  the  world ;  at  no  long  dis- 
tance would  come  Mr.  William  Morris  as  he  was 
when  he  wrote  "Golden  Wings,"  "The  Blue 
Closet,"  and  "The  Sailing  of  the  Sword";  and, 
close  up,  Mr.  Lear,  the  author  of  "The  Yongi 
Bongi  Bo,"  and  the  lay  of  the  "  Jumblies." 

On  the  other  hand,  Homer  would  sink  into  the 
limbo  to  which  ycoi  consigned  Moliere.  If  we 
may  judge  a  theory  by  its  results,  when  compared 
with  the  deliberate  verdict  of  the  world,  your  aes- 
thetic does  not  seem  to  hold  water.  The  "  Odys- 
sey" is  not  really  inferior  to  "  Ulalume,"  as  it 
ought  to  be  if  your  doctrine  of  poetry  were  correct, 
nor  "Le  Festin  de  Pierre"  to  "Undine."  Yet 


134  LETTERS   TO  DEAD  AUTHORS 

you  deserve  the  praise  of  having  been  constant,  in 
your  poetic  practice,  to  your  poetic  principles  — 
principles  commonly  deserted  by  poets  who,  like 
Wordsworth,  have  published  their  aesthetic  sys- 
tem. Your  pieces  are  few;  and  Dr.  Johnson 
would  have  called  you,  like  Fielding,  "a  barren 
rascal."  But  how  can  a  writer's  verses  be  numer- 
ous if  with  him,  as  with  you,  "  poetry  is  not  a  pur- 
suit but  a  passion  .  .  .  which  cannot  at  will  be 
excited  with  an  eye  to  the  paltry  compensations 
or  the  more  paltry  commendations  of  mankind  " ! 

/  Of  you  it  may  be  said,  more  truly  than  Shelley  said  \ 
it  of  himself,  that  "  to  ask  you  for  anything  human,    ) 

V.  is  like  asking  at  a  gin-shop  for  a  leg  of  mutton." 
Humanity  must  always  be,  to  the  majority  of 
men,  the  true  stuff  of  poetry ;  and  only  a  minority 
will  thank  you  for  that  rare  music  which  (like  the. 
strains  of  the  fiddler  in  the  story)  is  touched  on  a 
single  string,  and  on  an  instrument  fashioned  from 
the  spoils  of  the  grave..  You  chose,  or  you  were 
destined, 

To  vary  from  the  kindly  race  of  men ; 

and  the  consequences,  which  wasted  your  life,  pur- 
sue your  reputation. 

For  your  stories  has  been  reserved  a  boundless 
popularity,  and  that  highest  success  —  the  success 
of  a  perfectly  sympathetic  translation.  By  this 
time,  of  course,  you  have  made  the  acquaintance 
of  your  translator,  M.  Charles  Baudelaire,  who  so 
strenuously  shared  your  views  about  Mr.  Emerson 


TO  EDGAR  ALLAN  POE  135 

and  the  Transcendentalists,  and  who  so  energeti- 
cally resisted  all  those  ideas  of  "progress  "  which 
"  came  from  Hell  or  Boston. "  On  this  point,  how- 
ever, the  world  continues  to  differ  from  you  and 
M.  Baudelaire,  and  perhaps  there  is  only  the  choice 
between  our  optimism  and  universal  suicide  or  uni- 
versal opium-eating.  But  to  discuss  your  ultimate 
ideas  is  perhaps  a  profitless  digression  from  the 
topic  of  your  prose  romances. 

An  English  critic  (probably  a  Northerner  at 
heart)  has  described  them  as  "  Hawthorrtfe  and 
delirium  tremens."  I  am  not  aware  that  extreme 
orderliness,  masterly  elaboration,  and  unchecked 
progress  towards  a  predetermined  effect  are  char- 
acteristics of  the  visions  of  delirium.  If  they  be, 
then  there  is  a  deal  of  truth  in  the  criticism,  and  a 
good  deal  of  delirium  tremens  in  your  style.  But 
your  ingenuity,  your  completeness,  your  occasional 
luxuriance  of  fancy  and  wealth  of  jewel -like  words, 
are  not,  perhaps,  gifts  which  Mr.  Hawthorne  had 
at  his  command.  He  was  a  great  writer  —  the 
greatest  writer  in  prose  fiction  whom  America  has 
produced.  But  you  and  he  have  not  much  in 
common,  except  a  certain  mortuary  turn  of  mind 
and  a  taste  for  gloomy  allegories  about  the  work- 
ings of  conscience. 

I  forbear  to  anticipate  your  verdict  about  the 
latest  essays  of  American  fiction.  These  by  no 
means  follow  in  the  lines  which  you  laid  down 
about  brevity  and  the  steady  working  to  one  single 
effect.  Probably  you  would  not  be  very  tolerant 


i36  LETTERS   TO  DEAD  AUTHORS 

(tolerance  was  not  your  leading  virtue)  of  Mr. 
Roe,  now  your  countrymen's  favorite  novelist. 
He  is  long,  he  is  didactic,  he  is  eminently  unin- 
spired. In  the  works  of  one  who  is,  what  you 
were  called  yourself,  a  Bostonian,  you  would  ad- 
mire, at  least,  the  acute  observation,  the  subtlety, 
and  the  unfailing  distinction.  But,  destitute  of 
humor  as  you  unhappily  but  undeniably  were,  you 
would  miss,  I  fear,  the  charm  of  "Daisy  Miller." 
You  would  admit  the  unity  of  effect  secured  in 
"  Washington  Square,"  though  that  effect  is  as  re- 
mote as  possible  from  the  terror  of  "  The  House 
of  Usher "  or  the  vindictive  triumph  of  "  The 
Cask  of  Amontillado." 

Farewell,  farewell,  thou  sombre  and  solitary 
spirit :  a  genius  tethered  to  the  hack-work  of  the 
press,  a  gentleman  among  canaille,  a  poet  among 
poetasters,  dowered  with  a  scholar's  taste  without 
a  scholar's  training,  embittered  by  his  sensitive 
scorn,  and  all  unsupported  by  his  consolations. 


TO   SIR  WALTER  SCOTT,  BART. 


XV 


To  Sir  Walter  Scott,  Bart. 

Rodono,  St.  Mary's  Loch : 
Sept.  8,  1885. 

IR, — In  your  biography  it  is  recorded 
that  you  not  only  won  the  favor  of  all 
men  and  women  ;  but  that  a  domestic 
fowl  conceived  an  affection  for  you,  and 
that  a  pig,  by  his  will,  had  never  been  severed 
from  your  company.  If  some  Circe  had  repeated 
in  my  case  her  favorite  miracle  of  turning  mortals 
into  swine,  and  had  given  me  a  choice,  into  that 
fortunate  pig,  blessed  among  his  race,  would  I 
have  been  converted  !  You,  almost  alone  among 
men  of  letters,  still,  like  a  living  friend,  win  and 
charm  us  out  of  the  past ;  and  if  one  might  call  up 
a  poet,  as  the  scholiast  tried  to  call  Homer,  from 
the  shades,  who  would  not,  out  of  all  the  rest,  de- 
mand some  hours  of  your  society?  Who  that  ever 
139 


140  LETTERS   TO  DEAD  AUTHORS 

meddled  with  letters,  what  child  of  the  irritable 
race,  possessed  even  a  tithe  of  your  simple  manli- 
ness, of  the  heart  that  never  knew  a  touch  of  jeal- 
ousy, that  envied  no  man  his  laurels,  that  took 
honor  and  wealth  as  they  came,  but  never  would 
have  deplored  them  had  you  missed  both  and  re- 
mained but  the  Border  sportsman  and  the  Border 
antiquary  ? 

Were  the  word  "  genial "  not  so  much  pro- 
faned, were  it  not  misused,  in  easy  good-nature, 
to  extenuate  lettered  and  sensual  indolence,  that 
worn  old  term  might  be  applied,  above  all  men, 
to  "  the  Shirra."  But  perhaps  we  scarcely  need 
a  word  (it  would  be  seldom  in  use)  for  a  character 
so  rare,  or  rather  so  lonely,  in  its  nobility  and 
charm  as  that  of  Walter  Scott.  Here,  in  the  heart 
of  your  own  country,  among  your  own  gray 
round-shouldered  hills  (each  so  like  the  other 
that  the  shadow  of  one  falling  on  its  neighbor 
exactly  outlines  that  neighbor's  shape),  it  is  of 
you  and  of  your  works  that  a  native  of  the  Forest 
is  most  frequently  brought  in  mind.  All  the 
spirits  of  the  river  and  the  hill,  all  the  dying 
refrains  of  ballad  and  the  fading  echoes  of  story, 
all  the  memory  of  the  wild  past,  each  legend  of 
burn  and  loch,  seem  to  have  combined  to  inform 
your  spirit,  and  to  secure  themselves  an  immortal 
life  in  your ,  song.  It  is  through  you  that  we 
remember  them ;  and  in  recalling  them,  as  in 
treading  each  hillside  in  this  land,  we  again  re- 
member you  and  bless  you. 


TO  SIR   WALTER  SCOTT,  BART.          141 

It  is  not  "  Sixty  Years  Since  "  the  echo  of  the 
Tweed  among  his  pebbles  fell  for  the  last  time  on 
your  ear ;  not  sixty  years  since,  and  how  much  is 
altered!  But  two  generations  have  passed;  the 
lad  who  used  to  ride  from  Edinburgh  to  Abbots- 
ford,  carrying  new  books  for  you,  and  old,  is  still 
vending,  in  George  Street,  old  books  and  new. 
Of  politics  I  have  not  the  heart  to  speak.  Little 
joy  would  you  have  had  in  most  that  has  befallen 
since  the  Reform  Bill  was  passed,  to  the  chival- 
rous cry  of  "burke  Sir  Walter."  We  are  still 
very  Radical  in  the  Forest,  and  you  were  taken 
away  from  many  evils  to  come.  How  would  the 
cheek  of  Walter  Scott,  or  of  Leyden,  have  blushed 
at  the  names  of  Majuba,  The  Soudan,  Maiwand, 
and  many  others  that  recall  political  cowardice  or 
military  incapacity !  On  the  other  hand,  who  but 
you  could  have  sung  the  dirge  of  Gordon,  or 
wedded  with  immortal  verse  the  names  of  Hamil- 
ton (who  fell  with  Cavagnari),  of  the  two  Stewarts, 
of  many  another  clansman,  brave  among  the 
bravest !  Only  he  who  told  how 

The  stubborn  spearmen  still  made  good 
Their  dark  impenetrable  wood 

could  have  fitly  rhymed  a  score  of  feats  of  arms  in 
which,  as  at  M'NeilPs  Zareeba  and  at  Abu  Klea, 

Groom  fought  like  noble,  squire  like  knight, 
As  fearlessly  and  well. 

Ah,  Sir,  the  hearts  of  the  rulers  may  wax  faint, 
and  the  voting  classes  may  forget  that  they  are 


142  LETTERS   TO  DEAD  AUTHORS 

Britons;  but  when  it  comes  to  blows  our  fighting 
men  might  cry,  with  Leyden, 

My  name  is  little  Jock  Elliot, 
And  wha  daur  meddle  wi'  me  ! 

Much  is  changed,  in  the  country-side  as  well  as 
in  the  country;  but  much  remains.  The  little 
towns  of  your  time  are  populous  and  excessively 
black  with  the  smoke  of  factories  —  not,  I  fear,  at 
present  very  flourishing.  In  Galashiels  you  still 
see  the  little  change-house  and  the  cluster  of 
cottages  round  the  Laird's  lodge,  like  the  clachan 
of  Tully  Veolan.  But  these  plain  remnants  of 
the  old  Scotch  towns  are  almost  buried  in  a  multi- 
tude of  "smoky  dwarf  houses" — a  living  poet, 
Mr.  Matthew  Arnold,  has  found  the  fitting  phrase 
for  these  dwellings,  once  for  all.  All  over  the 
Forest  the  waters  are  dirty  and  poisoned:  I  think 
they  are  filthiest  below  Hawick;  but  this  may  be 
mere  local  prejudice  in  a  Selkirk  man.  To  keep 
them  clean  costs  money;  and,  though  improve- 
ments are  often  promised,  I  cannot  see  much 
change  for  the  better.  Abbotsford,  luckily,  is 
above  Galashiels,  and  only  receives  the  dirt  and 
dyes  of  Selkirk,  Peebles,  Walkerburn,  and  Inner- 
lethen.  On  the  other  hand,  your  ill-omened  later 
dwelling,  "  the  unhappy  palace  of  your  race,"  is 
overlooked  by  villas  that  prick  a  cockney  ear 
among  their  larches,  hotels  of  the  future.  Ah, 
Sir,  Scotland  is  a  strange  place.  Whiskey  is  exiled 
from  some  of  our  caravansaries,  and  they  have 


TO  SIR   WALTER  SCOTT,  BART.          143 

banished  Sir  John  Barleycorn.  It  seems  as  if  the 
views  of  the  excellent  critic  (who  wrote  your  life 
lately,  and  said  you  had  left  no  descendants,  le 
pauvre  homine  /)  were  beginning  to  prevail.  This 
pious  biographer  was  greatly  shocked  by  that 
capital  story  about  the  keg  of  whiskey  that  arrived 
at  the  Liddesdale  farmer's  during  family  prayers. 
Your  Toryism  also  was  an  offence  to  him. 

Among  these  vicissitudes  of  things  and  the 
overthrow  of  customs,  let  us  be  thankful  that, 
beyond  the  reach  of  the  manufacturers,  the  Border 
country  remains  as  kind  and  homely  as  ever.  I 
looked  at  Ashiestiel  some  days  ago:  the  house 
seemed  just  as  it  may  have  been  when  you  left  it 
for  Abbotsford,  only  there  was  a  lawn-tennis  net 
on  the  lawn,  the  hill  on  the  opposite  bank  of  the 
Tweed  was  covered  to  the  crest  with  turnips,  and 
the  burn  did  not  sing  below  the  little  bridge,  for 
in  this  arid  summer  the  burn  was  dry.  But  there 
was  still  a  grilse  that  rose  to  a  big  March  brown 
in  the  shrunken  stream  below  Elibank.  This 
may  not  interest  you,  who  styled  yourself 

No  fisher, 

But  a  well-wisher 

To  the  game ! 

Still,  as  when  you  were  thinking  over  Marmion, 
a  man  might  have  "grand  gallops  among  the 
hills  "  —  those  grave  wastes  of  heather  and  bent 
that  sever  all  the  watercourses  and  roll  their  sheep- 
covered  pastures  from  Dollar  Law  to  White 


144  LETTERS   TO  DEAD  AUTHORS 

Combe,  and  from  White  Combe  to  the  Three 
Brethren  Cairn  and  the  Windburg  and  Skelf-hill 
Pen.  Yes,  Teviotdale  is  pleasant  still,  and  there 
is  not  a  drop  of  dye  in  the  water,  purior  electro, 
of  Yarrow.  St.  Mary's  Loch  lies  beneath  me, 
smitten  with  wind  and  rain  —  the  St.  Mary's  of 
North  and  of  the  Shepherd.  Only  the  trout,  that 
see  a  myriad  of  artificial  flies,  are  shyer  than  of 
yore.  The  Shepherd  could  no  longer  fill  a  cart 
up  Meggat  with  trout  so  much  of  a  size  that  the 
country  people  took  them  for  herrings. 

The  grave  of  Piers  Cockburn  is  still  not  dese- 
crated :  hard  by  it  lies,  within  a  little  wood  ;  and 
beneath  that  slab  of  old  sandstone,  and  the  graven 
letters,  and  the  sword  and  shield,  sleep  "Piers 
Cockburn  and  Marjory  his  wife."  Not  a  hundred 
yards  off  was  the  castle-door  where  they  hanged 
him ;  this  is  the  tomb  of  the  ballad,  and  the  lady 
that  buried  him  rests  now  with  her  wild  lord. 

Oh,  wat  ye  no  my  heart  was  sair, 

When  I  happit  the  mouls  on  his  yellow  hair ; 

Oh,  wat  ye  no  my  heart  was  wae, 

When  I  turned  about  and  went  my  way !  * 

Here  too  hearts  have  broken,  and  there  is  a  sa- 
credness  in  the  shadow  and  beneath  these  cluster- 
ing berries  of  the  rowan-tree.  That  sacreclness, 
that  reverent  memory  of  our  old  land,  it  is  always 
and  inextricably  blended  with  our  memories,  with 

1  Lord  Napier  and  Ettrick  points  out  to  me  that,  unluckily, 
the  tradition  is  erroneous.  Piers  was  not  executed  at  all. 


TO  SIR   WALTER  SCOTT,  BART.          145 

our  thoughts,  with  our  love  of  you.  Scotchmen, 
methinks,  who  owe  so  much  to  you,  owe  you  most 
for  the  example  you  gave  of  the  beauty  of  a  life  of 
honor,  showing  them  what,  by  Heaven's  blessing, 
a  Scotchman  still  might  be. 

Words,  empty  and  unavailing  —  for  what  words 
of  ours  can  speak  our  thoughts  or  interpret  our 
affections !  From  you  first,  as  we  followed  the 
deer  with  King  James,  or  rode  with  William  of 
Deloraine  on  his  midnight  errand,  did  we  learn 
what  Poetry  means,  and  all  the  happiness  that  is 
in  the  gift  of  song.  This,  and  more  than  may  be 
told,  you  gave  us,  that  are  not  forgetful,  not  un- 
grateful, though  our  praise  be  unequal  to  our  grati- 
tude. Fungor  inani  munere  ! 

William  Cockburn  suffered  in  Edinburgh.  But  the  "  Bor- 
der Minstrelsy"  overrides  history. 

"Criminal  Trials  in  Scotland,"  by  Robert  Pitcairn,  Esq. 
Vol.  I.  part  i.  p.  144,  A.  D.  1530.  17  Jac.  V. 

May  16.  William  Cokburne  of  Henderland,  convicted  (in 
presence  of  the  King)  of  high  treason  committed  by  him  in 
bringing  Alexander  Forestare  and  his  son,  Englishmen,  to 
the  plundering  of  Archibald  Somervile ;  and  for  treasonably 
bringing  certain  Englishmen  to  the  lands  of  Glenquhome; 
and  for  common  theft,  common  reset  of  theft,  out-putting 
and  in-putting  thereof.  Sentence.  For  which  causes  and 
crimes  he  has  forfeited  his  life,  lands,  and  goods,  movable 
and  immovable ;  which  shall  be  escheated  to  the  King.  Be- 
headed. 


TO   EUSEBIUS   OF   (LESAREA 


XVI 


To  Eusebius  of  Ctzsarea 


CONCERNING  THE  GODS  OF  THE  HEATHEN 

OUCHING  the  Gods  of  the  Heathen, 
most  reverend  Father,  thou  art  not  ig- 
norant that  even  now,  as  in  the  time  of 
thy  probation  on  earth,  there  is  great 
dissension.  That  these  feigned  Deities  and  idols, 
the  work  of  men's  hands,  are  no  longer  worshipped 
thou  knowest ;  neither  do  men  eat  meat  offered  to 
idols.  Even  as  spoke  that  last  Oracle  which  mur- 
mured forth,  the  latest  and  the  only  true  voice  from 
Delphi,  even  so  "  the  fair- wrought  court  divine  hath 
fallen ;  no  more  hath  Phoebus  his  home,  no  more  his 
laurel-bough,  nor  the  singing  well  of  water ;  nay, 
the  sweet- voiced  water  is  silent."  The  fane  is  ruin- 
ous, and  the  images  of  man's  idolatry  are  dust. 

Nevertheless,  most  worshipful,  men  do  still  dis- 
pute about  the  beginnings  of  those  sinful  Gods, 
149 


ISO  LETTERS   TO  DEAD  AUTHORS 

such  as  Zeus,  Athene,  and  Dionysus,  and  marvel 
how  first  they  won  their  dominion  over  the  souls 
of  the  foolish  peoples.  Now,  concerning  these 
things  there  is  not  one  belief,  but  many ;  howbeit, 
there  are  two  main  kinds  of  opinion.  One  sect 
of  philosophers  believes  —  as  thyself,  with  hea- 
venly learning,  didst  not  vainly  persuade  —  that  the 
Gods  were  the  inventions  of  wild  and  bestial  folk, 
who,  long  before  cities  were  builded  or  life  was 
honorably  ordained,  fashioned  forth  evil  spirits  in 
their  own  savage  likeness ;  ay,  or  in  the  likeness 
of  the  very  beasts  that  perish.  To  this  judgment, 
as  it  is  set  forth  in  thy  "  Book  of  the  Preparation 
for  the  Gospel,"  I,  humble  as  I  am,  do  give  my 
consent.  But  on  the  other  side  are  many  and 
learned  men,  chiefly  of  the  tribes  of  the  Alemanni, 
who  have  almost  conquered  the  whole  inhabited 
world.  These,  being  unwilling  to  suppose  that  the 
Hellenes  were  in  bondage  to  superstitions  handed 
down  from  times  of  utter  darkness  and  a  bestial 
life,  do  chiefly  hold  with  the  heathen  philosophers, 
even  with  the  writers  whom  thou,  most  venerable, 
didst  confound  with  thy  wisdom,  and  chasten  with 
the  scourge  of  small  cords  of  thy  wit. 

Thus,  like  the  heathen,  our  doctors  and  teachers 
maintain  that  the  Gods  of  the  nations  were,  in  the 
beginning,  such  pure  natural  creatures  as  the  blue 
sky,  the  sun,  the  air,  the  bright  dawn,  and  the 
fire;  but,  as  time  went  on,  men,  forgetting  the 
meaning  of  their  own  speech,  and  no  longer  un- 
derstanding the  tongue  of  their  own  fathers,  were 


TO  EUSEBIUS   OF  CMS  A  RE  A  151 

misled  and  beguiled  into  fashioning  all  those  lam- 
entable tales :  as  that  Zeus,  for  love  of  mortal 
women,  took  the  shape  of  a  bull,  a  ram,  a  serpent, 
an  ant,  an  eagle,  and  sinned  in  such  wise  as  it  is  a 
shame  even  to  speak  of. 

Behold,  then,  most  worshipful,  how  these  doc- 
tors and  learned  men  argue,  even  like  the  philoso- 
phers of  the  heathen  whom  thou  didst  confound. 
For  they  declare  the  Gods  to  have  been  natural 
elements,  sun  and  sky  and  storm,  even  as  did  thy 
opponents ;  and,  like  them,  as  thou  saidst,  "  they 
are  nowise  at  one  with  each  other  in  their  expla- 
nations." For  of  old  some  boasted  that  Hera  was 
the  Air ;  and  some  that  she  signified  the  love  of 
woman  and  man;  and  some  that  she  was  the 
waters  above  the  Earth ;  and  others  that  she  was 
the  Earth  beneath  the  waters ;  and  yet  others  that 
she  was  the  Night,  for  that  Night  is  the  shadow 
of  Earth ;  as  if,  forsooth,  the  men  who  first  wor- 
shipped Hera  had  understanding  of  these  things  ! 
And  when  Hera  and  Zeus  quarrel  unseemly  (as 
Homer  declareth),  this  meant  (said  the  learned  in 
thy  days)  no  more  than  the  strife  and  confusion  of 
the  elements,  and  was  not  in  the  beginning  an  idle 
slanderous  tale. 

To  all  which,  most  worshipful,  thou  didst  an- 
swer wisely :  saying  that  Hera  could  not  be  both 
night,  and  earth,  and  water,  and  air,  and  the  love 
of  sexes,  and  the  confusion  of  the  elements ;  but 
that  all  these  opinions  were  vain  dreams,  and  the 
guesses  of  the  learned.  And  why  —  thou  saidst — 


152  LETTERS   TO  DEAD  AUTHORS 

even  if  the  Gods  were  pure  natural  creatures,  are 
such  foul  things  told  of  them  in  the  Mysteries  as 
it  is  not  fitting  for  me  to  declare  ?  "  These  wan- 
derings, and  drinkings,  and  loves,  and  corruptions, 
that  would  be  shameful  in  men,  why,"  thou  saidst, 
"  were  they  attributed  to  the  natural  elements ; 
and  wherefore  did  the  Gods  constantly  show  them- 
selves, like  the  sorcerers  called  were-wolves,  in 
the  shape  of  the  perishable  beasts  ?  "  But,  mainly, 
thou  didst  argue  that,  till  the  philosophers  of  the 
heathen  were  agreed  among  themselves,  not  all 
contradicting  each  the  other,  they  had  no  sem- 
blance of  a  sure  foundation  for  their  doctrine. 

To  all  this  and  more,  most  worshipful  Father, 
I  know  not  what  the  heathen  answered  thee. 
But,  in  our  time,  the  learned  men  who  stand  to  it 
that  the  heathen  Gods  were  in  the  beginning  the 
pure  elements,  and  that  the  nations,  forgetting 
their  first  love,  and  the  significance  of  their  own 
speech,  became  confused  and  were  betrayed  into 
foul  stories  about  the  pure  Gods  —  these  learned 
men,  I  say,  agree  no  whit  among  themselves. 
Nay,  they  differ  one  from  another,  not  less  than 
did  Plutarch  and  Porphyry  and  Theagenes,  and 
the  rest  whom  thou  didst  laugh  to  scorn.  Bear 
with  me,  Father,  while  I  tell  thee  how  the  new 
Plutarch  s  and  Porphyrys  do  contend  among  them- 
selves ;  and  yet  these  differences  of  theirs  they 
call  "Science"! 

Consider  the  goddess  Athene,  who  sprang  armed 
from  the  head  of  Zeus,  even  as — among  the  fables 


TO  EUSEBIUS   OF  C&SAREA  153 

of  the  poor  heathen  folk  of  seas  thou  never  knew- 
est — goddesses  are  fabled  to  leap  out  from  the 
armpits  or  feet  of  their  fathers.  Thou  must  know 
that  what  Plato,  in  the  "  Cratylus,"  made  Socrates 
say  in  jest,  the  learned  among  us  practise  in  sad 
earnest.  For,  when  they  wish  to  explain  the  nature 
of  any  God,  they  first  examine  his  name,  and  tor- 
ment the  letters  thereof,  arranging  and  altering 
them  according  to  their  will,  and  flying  off  to  the 
speech  of  the  Indians  and  Medes  and  Chaldeans, 
and  other  Barbarians,  if  Greek  will  not  serve  their 
turn.  How  saith  Socrates  ?  "I  bethink  me  of  a 
very  new  and  ingenious  idea  that  occurs  to  me ; 
and,  if  I  do  not  mind,  I  shall  be  wiser  than  I  should 
be  by  to-morrow's  dawn.  My  notion  is  that  we 
may  put  in  and  pull  out  letters  at  pleasure,  and  alter 
the  accents." 

Even  so  do  our  learned — not  at  pleasure,  may- 
be, but  according  to  certain  fixed  laws  (so  they 
declare);  yet  none  the  more  do  they  agree  among 
themselves.  And  I  deny  not  that  they  discover 
many  things  true  and  good  to  be  known ;  but,  as 
touching  the  names  of  the  Gods,  their  learning,  as 
it  standeth,  is  confusion.  Look,  then,  at  the  god- 
dess Athene  —  taking  one  example  out  of  hundreds. 
We  have  dwelling  in  our  coasts  Muellerus,  the 
most  erudite  of  the  doctors  of  the  Alemanni,  and 
the  most  golden-mouthed.  Concerning  Athene, 
he  saith  that  her  name  is  none  other  than,  in  the 
ancient  tongue  of  the  Brachmanae,  A  hand,  which, 
being  interpreted,  means  the  Dawn.  "  And  that 


i54  LETTERS   TO  DEAD  AUTHORS 

the  morning  light,"  saith  he, "  offers  the  best  start- 
ing-point; for  the  later  growth  of  Athene  has 
been  proved,  I  believe,  beyond  the  reach  of  doubt 
or  even  cavil."  1 

Yet  this  same  doctor  candidly  lets  us  know  that 
another  of  his  nation,  the  witty  Benfeius,  hath  de- 
vised another  sense  and  origin  of  Athene,  taken 
from  the  speech  of  the  old  Medes.  But  Muellerus 
declares  to  us  that  whosoever  shall  examine  the 
contention  of  Benfeius  "  will  be  bound,  in  common 
honesty,  to  confess  that  it  is  untenable."  This, 
Father,  is  "  one  for  Benfeius,"  as  the  saying  goes. 
And  as  Muellerus  holds  that  these  matters  "  admit 
of  almost  mathematical  precision,"  it  would  seem 
that  Benfeius  is  but  a  Dummkopf,  as  the  Alemanni 
say,  in  their  own  language,  when  they  would  be 
pleasant  among  themselves. 

Now, — wouldst  thou  credit  it? — despite  the 
mathematical  plainness  of  the  facts,  other  Ale- 
manni agree  neither  with  Muellerus,  nor  yet  with 
Benfeius,  and  will  neither  hear  that  Athene  was  the 
Dawn,  nor  yet  that  she  is  "the  feminine  of  the 
Zend  Thrdetdna  athwydna"  Lo,  you!  howPrel- 
lerus  goes  about  to  show  that  her  name  is  drawn 
not  from  Ahand  and  the  old  Brachmanse,  nor 
athivydna  and  the  old  Medes,  but  from  "  the  root 
aW9  whence  aidrjp,  the  air,  or  a.6,  whence  avdo£,  a 
flower."  Yea,  and  Prellerus  will  have  it  that  no 
man  knows  the  verity  of  this  matter.  None  the 

i"The  Lesson  of  Jupiter."—  Nineteenth  Century,  Oc- 
tober, 1885. 


TO  EUSEBIUS   OF  CMS  ARE  A  155 

less  he  is  very  bold,  and  will  none  of  the  Dawn ; 
but  holds  to  it  that  Athene  was,  from 'the  first, 
"the  clear  pure  height  of  the  Air,  which  is  ex- 
ceeding pure  in  Attica." 

Now,  Father,  as  if  all  this  were  not  enough, 
comes  one  Roscherus  in,  with  a  mighty  great  vol- 
ume on  the  Gods,  and  Furtwaenglerus,  among 
others,  for  his  ally.  And  these  doctors  will  neither 
with  Rueckertus  and  Hermannus  take  Athene  for 
"  wisdom  in  person " ;  nor  with  Welckerus  and 
Prellerus,  "  for  the  goddess  of  air  " ;  nor  even,  with 
Muellerus  and  mathematical  certainty,  for  "  the 
Morning- Red"  :  but  they  say  that  Athene  is  the 
"  black  thunder-cloud,  and  the  lightning  that  leap- 
eth  therefrom " !  I  make  no  doubt  that  other 
Alemanni  are  of  other  minds  :  quot  Alemanni  tot 
sententia. 

Yea,  as  thou  saidst  of  the  learned  heathen, 
Ovde  -yap  aXkifimq  cvjufava  tyvaiokoyvvGiv.  Yet 
these  disputes  of  theirs  they  call  "  Science " ! 
But  if  any  man  says  to  the  learned :  "  Best  of 
men,  you  are  erudite,  and  laborious,  and  witty, 
but,  till  you  are  more  of  the  same  mind,  your 
opinions  cannot  be  styled  knowledge.  Nay,  they 
are  at  present  of  no  avail  whereon  to  found  any 
doctrine  concerning  the  Gods" — that  man  is 
railed  at  for  his  "mean"  and  "weak"  arguments. 

Was  it  thus,  Father,  that  the  heathen  railed 
against  thee  ?  But  I  must  still  believe,  with  thee, 
that  these  evil  tales  of  the  Gods  were  invented 
"when  man's  life  was  yet  brutish  and  wander- 


i56  LETTERS   TO  DEAD  AUTHORS 

ing  "  (as  is  the  life  of  many  tribes  that  even  now 
tell  like  tales),  and  were  maintained  in  honor 
of  the  later  Greeks  "  because  none  dared  alter 
the  ancient  beliefs  of  his  ancestors."  Farewell, 
Father ;  and  all  good  be  with  thee,  wishes  thy 
well-wisher  and  thy  disciple. 


TO   PERCY   BYSSHE  SHELLEY 


XVII 

To  Percy  Bysshe  Shelley 

JIR, —  In  your  lifetime  on  earth  you  were 
not  more  than  commonly  curious  as 
to  what  was  said  by  "the  herd  of 
mankind,"  if  I  may  quote  your  own 
phrase.  It  was  that  of  one  who  loved  his  fellow- 
men,  but  did  not  in  his  less  enthusiastic  moments 
overestimate  their  virtues  and  their  discretion. 
Removed  so  far  away  from  our  hubbub,  and  that 
world  where,  as  you  say,  we  "pursue  our  seri- 
ous folly  as  of  old,"  you  are,  one  may  guess, 
but  moderately  concerned  about  the  fate  of  your 
writings  and  your  reputation.  As  to  the  first, 
you  have  somewhere  said,  in  one  of  your  letters, 
that  the  final  judgment  on  your  merits  as  a  poet 
is  in  the  hands  of  posterity,  and  that  you  fear 
the  verdict  will  be  "  Guilty,"  and  the  sentence 
"  Death."  Such  apprehensions  cannot  have  been 
159 


160  LETTERS   TO  DEAD  AUTHORS 

fixed  or  frequent  in  the  mind  of  one  whose  genius 
burned  always  with  a  clearer  and  steadier  flame 
to  the  last.  The  jury  of  which  you  spoke  has 
met:  a  mixed  jury  and  a  merciful.  The  verdict 
is  "Well  done,"  and  the  sentence  Immortality  of 
Fame.  There  have  been,  there  are,  dissenters; 
yet  probably  they  will  be  less  and  less  heard  as 
the  years  go  on. 

One  judge,  or  juryman,  has  made  up  his  mind 
that  prose  was  your  true  province,  and  that  your 
letters  will  outlive  your  lays.  I  know  not  whether 
it  was  the  same  or  an  equally  well-inspired  critic 
who  spoke  of  your  most  perfect  lyrics  (so  Beau 
Brummel  spoke  of  his  ill-tied  cravats)  as  "a 
gallery  of  your  failures."  But  the  general  voice 
does  not  echo  these  utterances  of  a  too  subtle  in- 
tellect. At  a  famous  University  (not  your  own) 
once  existed  a  band  of  men  known  as  "  The 
Trinity  Sniffers."  Perhaps  the  spirit  of  the  sniffer 
may  still  inspire  some  of  the  jurors  who  from 
time  to  time  make  themselves  heard  in  your  case. 
The  Quarterly  Review,  I  fear,  is  still  unrecon- 
ciled. It  regards  your  attempts  as  tainted  by 
the  spirit  of  "The  Liberal  Movement  in  Eng- 
lish Literature";  and  it  is  impossible,  alas!  to 
maintain  with  any  success  that  you  were  a  Throne 
and  Altar  Tory.  At  Oxford  you  are  forgiven; 
and  the  old  rooms  where  you  let  the  oysters  burn 
(was  not  your  founder,  King  Alfred,  once  guilty 
of  similar  negligence  ?)  are  now  shown  to  pious 
pilgrims. 


TO  PERCY  BYSSHE  SHELLEY          161 

But  Conservatives,  't  is  rumored,  are  still  averse 
to  your  opinions,  and  are  believed  to  prefer  to 
yours  the  works  of  the  Reverend  Mr.  Keble,  and, 
indeed,  of  the  clergy  in  general.  But,  in  spite  of 
all  this,  your  poems,  like  the  affections  of  the  true 
lovers  in  Theocritus,  are  still  "  in  the  mouths  of 
all,  andchiefly  on  the  lips  of  the  young."  It  is  in 
your  lyrics  that  you  live,  and  I  do  not  mean  that 
every  one  could  pass  an  examination  in  the  plot 
of"  Prometheus  Unbound."  Talking  of  this  piece, 
by  the  way,  a  Cambridge  critic  finds  that  it  reveals 
in  you  a  hankering  after  life  in  a  cave  —  doubt- 
less an  unconsciously  inherited  memory  from 
cave-man.  Speaking  of  cave-man  reminds  me  that 
you  once  spoke  of  deserting  song  for  prose,  and 
of  producing  a  history  of  the  moral,  intellectual, 
and  political  elements  in  human  society,  which, 
we  now  agree,  began,  as  Asia  would  fain  have 
ended,  in  a  cave. 

Fortunately  you  gave  us  "Adonafe"  and 
"Hellas"  instead  of  this  treatise,  and  we  have 
now  successfully  written  the  natural  history  of 
Man  for  ourselves.  Science  tells  us  that  before 
becoming  a  cave-dweller  he  was  a  Brute;  Experi- 
ence daily  proclaims  that  he  constantly  reverts  to 
his  original  condition.  L?homme  est  un  mechant 
animal,  in  spite  of  your  boyish  efforts  to  add 
pretty  girls  "  to  the  list  of  the  good,  the  disinter- 
ested, and  the  free." 

Ah,  not  in  the  wastes  of  Speculation,  nor  the 
sterile  din  of  Politics,  were  "  the  haunts  meet  for 


162          LETTERS  TO  DEAD  AUTHORS 

thee. "  Watching  the  yellow  bees  in  the  ivy  bloom, 
and  the  reflected  pine  forest  in  the  water-pools, 
watching  the  sunset  as  it  faded,  and  the  dawn  as  it 
fired,  and  weaving  all  fair  and  fleeting  things  into 
a  tissue  where  light  and  music  were  at  one,  that 
was  the  task  of  Shelley !  "  '^p  ask  you  for  any- 
thinghuman,"  you  said,  "  was  like  asking-for  a 
leg  nf  muito^]arygrn-snop./;  Nay,  rather,  like 
asking  Apollo  and  Hebe,  in  the  Olympian  abodes, 
to  give  us  beef  for  ambrosia,  and  port  for  nectar. 
Each  poet  gives  what  he  has,  and  what  he  can 
offer;  you  spread  before  us  fairy  bread,  and  en- 
chanted wine,  and  shall  we  turn  away  with  a  sneer 
because,  out  of  all  the  multitudes  of  singers,  one 
is  spiritual  and  strange,  one  has  seen  Artemis  un- 
veiled ?  One,  like  Anchises,  has  been  beloved  of 
the  Goddess,  and  his  eyes,  when  he  looks  on  the 
common  world  of  common  men,  are,  like  the  eyes 
of  Anchises,  blind  with  excess  of  light.  Let  Shelley 
sing  of  what  he  saw,  what  none  saw  but  Shelley  ! 
Notwithstanding  the  popularity  of  your  poems 
(the  most  romantic  of  things  didactic),  our  world 
is  no  better  than  the  world  you  knew.  This  will 
disappoint  you,  who  had  "  a  passion  for  reforming 
it."  Kings  and  priests  are  very  much  where  you 
left  them.  True,  we  have  a  poet  who  assails  them, 
at  large,  frequently  and  fearlessly ;  yet  Mr.  Swin- 
burne has  never,  like  "kind  Hunt,"  been  in  prison, 
nor  do  we  fear  for  him  a  charge  of  treason.  More- 
over, chemical  science  has  discovered  new  and 
ingenious  ways  of  destroying  principalities  and 


TO  PERCY  BYSSHE  SHELLEY  163 

powers.  You  would  be  interested  in  the  methods, 
but  your  peaceful  Revolutionism,  which  disdained 
physical  force,  would  regret  their  application. 

Our  foreign  affairs  are  not  in  a  state  which  even 
you  would  consider  satisfactory ;  for  we  have  just 
had  to  contend  with  a  Revolt  of  Islam,  and  we  still 
find  in  Russia  exactly  the  qualities  which  you  rec- 
ognized and  described.  We  have  a  great  states- 
man whose  methods  and  eloquence  somewhat 
resemble  those  you  attribute  to  Laon  and  Prince 
Athanase.  Alas  !  he  is  a  youth  of  more  than  sev- 
enty summers ;  and  not  in  his  time  will  Prometheus 
retire  to  a  cavern  and  pass  a  peaceful  millennium 
in  twining  buds  and  beams. 

In  domestic  affairs  most  of  the  Reforms  you 
desired  to  see  have  been  carried.  Ireland  has 
received  Emancipation,  and  almost  everything  else 
she  can  ask  for.  I  regret  to  say  that  she  is  still 
unhappy;  her  wounds  unstanched,  her  wrongs 
unforgiven.  At  home  we  have  enfranchised  the 
paupers,  and  expect  the  most  happy  results. 
Paupers  (as  Mr.  Gladstone  says)  are  "our  own 
flesh  and  blood,"  and,  as  we  compel  them  to  be 
vaccinated,  so  we  should  permit  them  to  vote.  Is 
it  a  dream  that  Mr.  Jesse  Collings  (how  you  would 
have  loved  that  man!)  has  a  Bill  for  extending 
the  priceless  boon  of  the  vote  to  inmates  of  Pau- 
per Lunatic  Asylums  ?  This  may  prove  that  last 
element  in  the  Elixir  of  political  happiness  which 
we  have  long  sought  in  vain.  Atheists,  you  will 
regret  to  hear,  are  still  unpopular ;  but  the  new 


1 64  LETTERS   TO  DEAD  AUTHORS 

Parliament  has  done  something  for  Mr.  Brad- 
laugh.  You  should  have  known  our  Charles 
while  you  were  in  the  "  Queen  Mab  "  stage.  I 
fear  you  wandered,  later,  from  his  robust  condi- 
tion of  intellectual  development. 

As  to  your  private  life,  many  biographers  con- 
trive to  make  public  as  much  of  it  as  possible. 
Your  name,  even  in  life,  was,  alas !  a  kind  of 
ducdame  to  bring  people  of  no  very  great  sense 
into  your  circle.  This  curious  fascination  has 
attracted  round  your  memory  a  feeble  folk  of 
commentators,  biographers,  anecdotists,  and  others 
of  the  tribe.  They  swarm  round  you  like  carrion - 
flies  round  a  sensitive  plant,  like  night-birds 
bewildered  by  the  sun.  Men  of  sense  and  taste 
have  written  on  you,  indeed;  but  your  weaker 
admirers  are  now  disputing  as  to  whether  it  was 
your  heart,  or  a  less  dignified  and  most  trouble- 
some organ,  which  escaped  the  flames  of  the 
funeral  pyre.  These  biographers  fight  terribly 
among  themselves,  and  vainly  prolong  the  memory 
of  "  old  unhappy  far-off  things,  and  sorrows  long 
ago."  Let  us  leave  them  and  their  squabbles  over 
what  is  unessential,  their  raking  up  of  old  letters 
and  old  stories. 

The  town  has  lately  yawned  a  weary  laugh  over 
an  enemy  of  yours,  who  has  produced  two  heavy 
volumes,  styled  by  him  "The  Real  Shelley." 
The  real  Shelley,  it  appears,  was  Shelley  as  con- 
ceived of  by  a  worthy  gentleman  so  prejudiced 
and  so  skilled  in  taking  up  things  by  the  wrong 


TO  PERCY  BYSSHE  SHELLEY          165 

handle  that  I  wonder  he  has  not  made  a  name  in 
the  exact  science  of  Comparative  Mythology.  He 
criticizes  you  in  the  spirit  of  that  Christian  Apolo- 
gist, the  Englishman  who  called  you  "  a  damned 
Atheist"  in  the  post-office  at  Pisa.  He  finds  that 
you  had  "  a  little  turned-up  nose,"  a  feature  no 
less  important  in  his  system  than  was  the  nose  of 
Cleopatra  (according  to  Pascal)  in  the  history  of 
the  world.  To  be  in  harmony  with  your  nose, 
you  were  a  "phenomenal"  liar,  an  ill-bred,  ill- 
born  profligate,  partly  insane,  an  evil-tempered 
monster,  a  self-righteous  person,  full  of  self-ap- 
probation— in  fact,  you  were  the  Beast  of  this  pi- 
ous Apocalypse.  Your  friend,  Dr.  Lind,  was  an 
embittered  and  scurrilous  apothecary,  "  a  bad  old 
man."  But  enough  of  this  inopportune  brawler. 
For  Humanity,  of  which  you  hoped  such  great 
things,  Science  predicts  extinction  in  a  night  of 
Frost.  The  sun  will  grow  cold,  slowly  —  as  slowly 
as  doom  came  on  Jupiter  in  your  "  Prometheus," 
but  as  surely.  If  this  nightmare  be  fulfilled,  per- 
haps the  Last  Man,  in  some  fetid  hut  on  the 
ice-bound  Equator,  will  read,  by  a  fading  lamp 
charged  with  the  dregs  of  the  oil  in  his  cruse,  the 
poetry  of  Shelley.  So  reading,  he,  the  latest  of  his 
race,  will  not  wholly  be  deprived  of  those  sights 
which  alone  (says  the  nameless  Greek)  make  life 
worth  enduring.  In  your  verse  he  will  have  sight 
of  sky,  and  sea,  and  cloud,  the  gold  of  dawn,  and 
the  gloom  of  earthquake  and  eclipse.  He  will  be 
face  to  face,  in  fancy,  with  the  great  powers  that 


i66 


LETTERS   TO  DEAD  AUTHORS 


are  dead,  sun,  and  ocean,  and  the  illimitable  azure 
of  the  heavens.  In  Shelley's  poetry,  while  Man 
endures,  all  those  will  survive ;  for  your  "  voice  is 
as  the  voice  of  winds  and  tides,"  and  perhaps  more 
deathless  than  all  of  these,  and  only  perishable 
with  the  perishing  of  the  human  spirit. 


TO 

MONSIEUR   DE   MOLlfiRE, 
VALET   DE   CHAMBRE   DU   ROI 


XVIII 

To  Monsieur  de  Moliere^  Valet  de  Chambre 
du  Roi 


ONSIEUR,— With  what  awe  does  a 
writer  venture  into  the  presence  of  the 
great  Moliere !  As  a  courtier  in  your 
time  would  scratch  humbly  (with  his 
comb!)  at  the  door  of  the  Grand  Monarch,  so  I 
presume  to  draw  near  your  dwelling  among  the 
Immortals.  You,  like  the  king  who,  among  all  his 
titles,  has  now  none  so  proud  as  that  of  the  friend 
of  Moliere  —  you  found  your  dominions  small, 
humble,  and  distracted;  you  raised  them  to  the 
dignity  of  an  empire :  what  Louis  XIV.  did  for 
France  you  achieved  for  French  comedy ;  and  the 
baton  of  Scapin  still  wields  its  sway  though  the 
sword  of  Louis  was  broken  at  Blenheim.  For  the 
King  the  Pyrenees,  or  so  he  fancied,  ceased  to  ex- 
ist; by  a  more  magnificent  conquest  you  overcame 
169 


1 70  LETTERS  TO  DEAD  AUTHORS 

the  Channel.  If  England  vanquished  your  coun- 
try's arms,  it  was  through  you  that  France  ferum 
victorem  cepit,  and  restored  the  dynasty  of  Comedy 
to  the  land  whence  she  had  been  driven.  Ever 
since  Dryden  borrowed  "L'Etourdi,"  our  tardy, 
apish  nation  has  lived  (in  matters  theatrical)  on  the 
spoils  of  the  wits  of  France. 

In  one  respect,  to  be  sure,  times  and  manners 
have  altered.  While  you  lived,  taste  kept  the 
French  drama  pure;  and  it  was  the  congenial 
business  of  English  playwrights  to  foist  their 
rustic  grossness  and  their  large  Fescennine  jests 
into  the  urban  page  of  Moliere.  Now  they  are 
diversely  occupied;  and  it  is  their  affair  to  lend 
modesty  where  they  borrow  wit,  and  to  spare  a 
blush  to  the  cheek  of  the  Lord  Chamberlain.  But 
still,  as  has  ever  been  our  wont  since  Etherege 
saw,  and  envied,  and  imitated  your  successes  — 
still  we  pilfer  the  plays  of  France,  and  take  our 
Men,  as  you  said  in  your  lordly  manner,  wherever 
we  can  find  it.  We  are  the  privateers  of  the 
stage;  and  it  is  rarely,  to  be  sure,  that  a  comedy 
pleases_the^town  which  has  not  first  been  "cut 
cmt"  from  the  countrymen  of  Moliere.  Why 
this  should  be,  and  what  "  tenebriferous  star  "  (as 
Paracelsus,  your  companion  in  the  "  Dialogues 
des  Morts,"  would  have  believed)  thus  darkens 
the  sun  of  English  humor,  we  know  not;  but 
certainly  our  dependence  on  France  is  the  sin- 
cerest  tribute  to  you.  Without  you,  neither  Rotrou, 
nor  Corneille,  nor  "  a  wilderness  of  monkeys  " 


TO  MONSIEUR  DE  MOLIERE  171 

like  Scarron,  could  ever  have  given  Comedy  to 
France  and  restored  her  to  Europe. 

While  we  owe  to  you,  Monsieur,  the  beautiful 
advent  of  Comedy,  fair  and  beneficent  as  Peace 
in  the  play  of  Aristophanes,  it  is  still  to  you  that 
we  must  turn  when  of  comedies  we  desire  the 
best.  If  you  studied  with  daily  and  nightly  care 
the  works  of  Plautus  and  Terence,  if  you  "  let  no 
musty  bouquin  escape  you"  (so  your  enemies 
declared),  it  was  to  some  purpose  that  you  labored. 
Shakspeare  excepted,  you  eclipsed  all  who  came 
before  you;  and  from  those  that  follow,  how- 
ever fresh,  we  turn :  we  turn  from  Regnard 
and  Beaumarchais,  from  Sheridan  and  Goldsmith, 
from  Musset  and  Pailleron  and  Labiche,  to  that 
crowded  world  of  your  creations.  "Creations" 
one  may  well  say,  for  you  anticipated  Nature 
herself^  you  gave  us,  before  she  did,  in  Alceste  a 
Rousseau  who  was  a  gentleman,  not  a  lackey ;  in 
aT^^^ol^Dbn  Juan's,  the  secret  of  the  new  Re- 
ligion  and  the  watchword  of  Comte,  I'amour  de 
Vhumanite. 

""Before  you~"where  can  we  find,  save  in  Rabelais, 
a  Frenchman  with  humor ;  and  where,  unless  it 
be  in  Montaigne,  the  wise  philosophy  of  a  secular 
civilization  ?  With  a  heart  the  most  tender,  deli- 
cate, loving,  and  generous,  a  heart  often  in  agony 
and  torment,  you  had  to  make  life  endurable  (we 
cannot  doubt  it)  without  any  whisper  of  promise, 
or  hope,  or  warning  from  Religion.  Yes,  in  an 
age  when  the  greatest  mind  of  all,  the  mind  of 


172  LETTERS  TO  DEAD  AUTHORS 

Pascal,  proclaimed  that  the  only  help  was  in 
voluntary  blindness,  that  the  only  chance  was  to 
hazard  all  on  a  bet  at  evens,  you,  Monsieur, 
refused  to  be  blinded,  or  to  pretend  to  see  what 
you  found  invisible. 

In  Religion  you  beheld  no  promise  of  help. 
When  the  Jesuits  and  Jansenists  of  your  time 
saw,  each  of  them,  in  Tartufe  the  portrait  of  their 
rivals  (as  each  of  the  laughable  Marquises  in  your 
play  conceived  that  you  were  girding  at  his 
neighbor),  you  all  the  while  were  mocking  every 
credulous  excess  of  Faith.  In  the  sermons  preached 
to  Agnes  we  surely  hear  your  private  laughter ;  in 
the  arguments  for  credulity  which  are  presented 
to  Don  Juan  by  his  valet  we  listen  to  the  eternal 
self-defence  of  superstition.  Thus,  desolate  of 
belief,  you  sought  for  the  permanent  element  of 
life  —  precisely  where  Pascal  recognized  all  that 
was  most  fleeting  and  unsubstantial  —  in  divertisse- 
ment ;  in  the  pleasure  of  looking  on,  a_  spectator 
of  the  accidents  of  existence,  an  observer  of  the 
follies_of  mankind.  Like  the  Gods  of  the  Epi- 
curean, you  seem  to  regard  our  life  as  a  play  that 
is  played,  as  a  comedy ;  yet  how  often  the  tragic 
note  comes  in !  What  pity,  and  in  the  laughter 
what  an  accent  of  tears,  as  of  rain  in  the  wind ! 
No  comedian  has  been  so  kindly  and  human  as 
you ;  none  has  had  a  heart,  like  you,  to  feel  for 
his  butts,  and  to  leave  them  sometimes,  in  a  sense, 
superior  to  their  tormentors.  Sganarelle,  M.  de 
Pourceaugnac,  George  Dandin,  and  the  rest  —  our 


TO  MONSIEUR  DE  MOLIERE  173 

sympathy,  somehow,  is  with  them,  after  all ;  and 
M.  de  Pourceaugnac  is  a  gentleman,  despite  his 
misadventures. 

Though  triumphant  Youth  and  malicious  Love 
in  your  plays  may  batter  and  defeat  Jealousy  and 
Old  Age,  yet  they  have  not  all  the  victory,  or  you 
did  not  mean  that  they  should  win  it.  They  go 
off  with  laughter,  and  their  victim  with  a  grimace; 
but  in  him  we,  that  are  past  our  youth,  behold  an 
actor  in  an  unending  tragedy,  the  defeat  of  a  gen- 
eration. Your  sympathy  is  not  wholly  with  the 
dogs  that  are  having  their  day ;  you  can  throw  a 
bone  or  a  crust  to  the  dog  that  has  had  his,  and 
has  been  taught  that  it  is  over  and  ended.  Your- 
self not  unlearned  in  shame,  in  jealousy,  in  endur- 
ance of  the  wanton  pride  of  men  (how  could  the 
poor  player  and  the  husband  of  Celimene  be  un- 
taught in  that  experience  ?),  you  never  sided  quite 
heartily,  as  other  comedians  have  done,  with  young 
prosperity  and  rank  and  power. 

I  am  not  the  first  who  has  dared  to  approach  you 
in  the  Shades ;  for  just  after  your  own  death  the 
author  of  "  Les  Dialogues  des  Morts  "  gave  you 
Paracelsus  as  a  companion,  and  the  author  of  "Le 
Jugement  de  Pluton"  made  the  " mighty  warder" 
decide  that  "  Moliere  should  not  talk  philosophy." 
These  writers,  like  most  of  us,  feel  that,  after  all, 
the  comedies  of  the  Contemplateur,  of  the  transla- 
tor of  Lucretius,  are  a  philosophy  of  life  in  them- 
selves, and  that  in  them  we  read  the  lessons  of 
human  experience  writ  small  and  clear. 


174  LETTERS   TO  DEAD  AUTHORS 

What  comedian  but  Moliere  has  combined  with 
such  depths  —  with  the  indignation  of  Alceste,  the 
self-deception  of  Tartufe,  the  blasphemy  of  Don 
Juan  —  such  wildness  of  irresponsible  mirth,  such 
humor,  such  wit!  Even  now,  when  more  than 
two  hundred  years  have  sped  by,  when  so  much 
water  has  flowed  under  the  bridges,  and  has  borne 
away  so  many  trifles  of  contemporary  mirth  (cetera 
fluminis  rituferuntur),  even  now  we  never  laugh 
so  well  as  when  Mascarille  and  Vadius  and  M. 
Jourdain  tread  the  boards  in  the  Maison  de  Moliere. 
Since  those  mobile  dark  brows  of  yours  ceased 
to  make  men  laugh,  since  your  voice  denounced 
the  "demoniac"  manner  of  contemporary  trage- 
dians, I  take  leave  to  think  that  no  player  has  been 
more  worthy  to  wear  the  canons  of  Mascarille 
or  the  gown  of  Vadius  than  M.  Coquelin  of  the 
Comedie  Franchise.  In  him  you  have  a  successor 
to  your  Mascarille  so  perfect,  that  the  ghosts  of 
play-goers  of  your  date  might  cry,  could  they  see 
him,  that  Moliere  had  come  again.  But,  with  all 
respect  to  the  efforts  of  the  fair,  I  doubt  if  Mdlle. 
Barthet,  or  Mdme.  Croizette  herself,  would  recon- 
cile the  town  to  the  loss  of  the  fair  De  Brie,  and 
Madeleine,  and  the  first,  the  true  Celimene,  Ar- 
mande.  Yet  had  you  ever  so  merry  a  soubrette 
as  Mdme.  Samary,  so  exquisite  a  Nicole  ? 

Denounced,  persecuted,  and  buried  hugger- 
mugger  two  hundred  years  ago,  you  are  now  not 
over-praised,  but  more  worshipped,  with  more 
servility  and  ostentation,  studied  with  more  prying 


TO  MONSIEUR  DE  MOLIERE  175 

curiosity  than  you  may  approve.  Are  not  thel 
Molieristes  a  body  who  carry  adoration  to  fanat- 
icism ?  Any  scrap  of  your  handwriting  (so  few 
are  these),  any  anecdote  even  remotely  touching 
on  your  life,  any  fact  that  may  prove  your  house 
was  numbered  15  not  22,  is  eagerly  seized  and  dis- 
cussed by  your  too  minute  historians.  Concern- 
ing your  private  life,  these  men  often  write  more 
like  malicious  enemies  than  friends ;  repeating  the 
fabulous  scandals  of  Le  Boulanger,  and  trying 
vainly  to  support  them  by  grubbing  in  dusty  parish 
registers.  It  is  most  necessary  to  defend  you  from 
your  friends — from  such  friends  as  the  veteran 
and  inveterate  M.  Arsene  Houssaye,  or  the  in- 
dustrious but  puzzle-headed  M.  Loiseleur.  Truly 
they  seek  the  living  among  the  dead,  and  the  im- 
mortal Moliere  among  the  sweepings  of  attorneys* 
offices.  As  I  regard  them  (for  I  have  tarried  in 
their  tents),  and  as  I  behold  their  trivialities, — the 
exercises  of  men  who  neglect  Moliere's  works  to 
write  about  Moliere's  great-grandmother's  second- 
best  bed, — I  sometimes  wish  that  Moliere  were 
here  to  write  on  his  devotees  a  new  comedy,  "  Les 
Molieristes."  How  fortunate  were  they,  Mon- 
sieur, who  lived  and  worked  with  you;  who  saw 
you  day  by  day;  who  were  attached,  as  Lagrange 
tells  us,  by  the  kindest  loyalty  to  the  best  and  most 
honorable  of  men,  the  most  open-handed  in  friend- 
ship, in  charity  the  most  delicate,  of  the  heartiest 
sympathy !  Ah,  that  for  one  day  I  could  behold 
you,  writing  in  the  study,  rehearsing  on  the  stage, 


176  LETTERS  TO  DEAD  AUTHORS 

musing  in  the  lace-seller's  shop,  strolling  through 
the  Palais, turning  over  the  new  books  at  Billaine's, 
dusting  your  ruffles  among  the  old  volumes  on  the 
sunny  stalls.  Would  that,  through  the  ages,  we 
could  hear  you  after  supper,  merry  with  Boileau, 
and  with  Racine, —  not  yet  a  traitor, — laughing 
over  Chapelain,  combining  to  gird  at  him  in  an 
epigram,  or  mocking  at  Cotin,  or  talking  your  fa- 
vorite philosophy,  mindful  of  Descartes.  Surely 
of  all  the  wits  none  was  ever  so  good  a  man,  none 
ever  made  life  so  rich  with  humor  and  friendship. 


TO   ROBERT  BURNS 


XIX 


To  Robert  Burns 


JjIR, —  Among  men  of  Genius,  and  espe- 
cially among  Poets,  there  are  some  to 
whom  we  turn  with  a  peculiar  and  un- 
feigned affection ;  there  are  others  whom 
we  admire  rather  than  love.  By  some  we  are  won 
with  our  will,  by  others  conquered  against  our  de- 
sire. It  has  been  your  peculiar  fortune  to  capture 
the  hearts  of  a  whole  people  4-  a  people  not  usually 
prone  to  praise,  but  devoted  with  a  personal  and 
patriotic  loyalty  to  you  and  to  your  reputation.  In 
you  every  Scot  who  is  a  Scot  sees,  admires,  and 
compliments  Himself,  his  ideal  self — independent, 
fond  of  whiskey,  fonder  of  the  lassies ;  you  are  the 
true  representative  of  him  and  of  his  nation.  Next 
year  will  be  the  hundredth  since  the  press  of  Kil- 
marnock  brought  to  light  its  solitary  masterpiece, 
your  Poems ;  and  next  year,  therefore,  methinks, 
179 


i8o  LETTERS   TO  DEAD  AUTHORS 

the  revenue  will  receive  a  welcome  accession  from 
the  abundance  of  whiskey  drunk  in  your  honor. 
It  is  a  cruel  thing  for  any  of  your  countrymen  to 
feel  that,  where  all  the  rest  love,  he  can  only  ad- 
mire ;  where  all  the  rest  are  idolaters,  he  may  not 
bend  the  knee ;  but  stands  apart  and  beats  upon 
his  breast,  observing,  not  adoring — a  critic.)  Yet 
to  some  of  us — petty  souls,  perhaps,  and  envious 
—  that  loud  indiscriminating  praise  of  "Robbie 
Burns  "  (for  so  they  style  you  in  their  Change- 
house  familiarity)  has  long  been  ungrateful;  and, 
among  the  treasures  of  your  songs,  we  venture  to 
select  and  even  to  reject.  So  it  must  be!  We 
cannot  all  love  Haggis,  nor  "painch,  tripe,  and 
thairm,"  and  all  those  rural  dainties  which  you  cele- 
brate as  "  warm-reekin,  rich !  "  "  Rather  too  rich," 
as  the  Young  Lady  said  on  an  occasion  recorded 
by  Sam  Weller. 

Auld  Scotland  wants  nae  skinking  ware 

That  jaups  in  luggies ; 
But,  if  ye  wish  her  gratefu'  prayer, 

Gie  her  a  Haggis  ! 

You  have  given  her  a  Haggis,  with  a  vengeance, 
and  her  " gratefu'  prayer"  is  yours  forever.  But 
if  even  an  eternity  of  partridge  may  pall  on  the 
epicure,  so  of  Haggis,  too,  as  of  all  earthly  delights, 
cometh  satiety  at  last.  And  yet  what  a  glorious 
Haggis  it  is  —  the  more  emphatically  rustic  and 
even  Fescennine  part  of  your  verse !  We  have 
had  many  a  rural  bard  since  Theocritus  "watched 


TO  ROBERT  BURNS  181 

the  visionary  flocks,"  but  you  are  the  only  one  of 
them  all  who  has  spoken  the  sincere  Doric.  Yours 
is  the  talk  of  the  byre  and  the  plough-tail;  yours 
is  that  large  utterance  of  the  early  hinds.  Even 
Theocritus  minces  matters,  save  where  Lacon  and 
Comatas  quite  outdo  the  swains  of  Ayrshire. 
"But  thee,  Theocritus,  wha  matches?"  you  ask, 
and  yourself  out-match  him  in  this  wide  rude 
region,  trodden  only  by  the  rural  Muse.  "  Thy 
rural  loves  are  nature's  sel' ; "  and  the  wooer  of 
Jean  Armour  speaks  more  like  a  true  shepherd 
than  the  elegant  Daphnis  of  the  "Oaristys." 

Indeed  it  is  with  this  that  moral  critics  of  your  \ 
life  reproach  you,  forgetting,  perhaps,  that  in  your    1 
amours  you  were  but  as  other  Scotch  ploughmen    I 
and  shepherds  of  the  past  and  present.     Ettrick    / 
may  still,  with  Afghanistan,  offer  matter  for  idyls,  J 
as  Mr.  Carlyle  (your  antithesis,  and  the  complement 
of  the  Scotch  character)  supposed;  but  the  morals 
of  Ettrick  are  those  of  rural  Sicily  in  old  days,  or  of 
Mossgielin  your  days.  Over  these  matters  the  Kirk, 
with  all  her  power,  and  the  Free  Kirk  too,  have 
had  absolutely  no  influence  whatever.     To  leave 
so  delicate  a  topic,  you  were  but  as  other  swains, 
or  as  "  that  birkie  ca'd  a  lord,"  Lord  Byron;  only 
you  combined  (in  certain  of  your  letters)  a  liber- 
tine theory  with  your  practice ;  you  poured  out  in 
song  your  audacious  raptures,  your  half-hearted  re- 
pentance, your  shame,  and  your  scorn.   You  spoke 
the  truth  about  rural  lives  and  loves.    We  may  like 
it,  or  dislike  it ;  but  we  cannot  deny  the  verity. 


1 82  LETTERS   TO  DEAD  AUTHORS 

Was  it  not  as  unhappy  a  thing,  Sir,  for  you,  as  it 
was  fortunate  for  Letters  and  for  Scotland,  that  you 
were  born  at  the  meeting  of  two  ages  and  of  two 
worlds — precisely  in  the  moment  when  bookish 
literature  was  beginning  to  reach  the  people,  and 
when  Society  was  first  learning  to  admit  the  low- 
born to  her  Minor  Mysteries  ?  Before  you  how 
many  singers  not  less  truly  poets  than  yourself — 
though  less  versatile  not  less  passionate,  though 
less  sensuous  not  less  simple — had  been  born  and 
had  died  in  poor  men's  cottages !  There  abides 
not  even  the  shadow  of  a  name  of  the  old  Scotch 
song-smiths,  of  the  old  ballad-makers.  The  au- 
thors of  «  Clerk  Saunders,"  of  "  The  Wife  of  Ush- 
er's Well,"  of  "Fair  Annie,"  and  "Sir  Patrick 
Spens,"  and  "The  Bonny  Hind,"  are  as  unknown 
to  us  as  Homer,  whom  in  their  directness  and  force 
they  resemble.  They  never,  perhaps,  gave  their 
poems  to  writing  ;  certainly  they  never  gave  them 
to  the  press.  On  the  lips  and  in  the  hearts  of  the 
people  they  have  their  lives ;  and  the  singers,  after 
a  life  obscure  and  untroubled  by  society  or  by 
fame,  are  forgotten.  "  The  Iniquity  of  Oblivion 
blindly  scattereth  his  Poppy." 

Had  you  been  born  some  years  earlier,  you  would 
have  been  even  as  these  unnamed  Immortals,  leav- 
ing great  verses  to  a  little  clan — verses  retained 
only  by  memory.  You  would  have  been  but  the 
minstrel  of  your  native  valley :  the  wider  world 
would  not  have  known  you,  nor  you  the  world. 
Great  thoughts  of  independence  and  revolt  would 


TO  ROBERT  BURNS  183 

never  have  burned  in  you  ;  indignation  would  not 
have  vexed  you.  Society  would  not  have  given 
and  denied  her  caresses.  You  would  have  been 
happy.  Your  songs  would  have  lingered  in  all 
"the  circle  of  the  summer  hills  " ;  and  your  scorn, 
your  satire,  your  narrative  verse,  would  have  been 
unwritten  or  unknown.  To  the  world  what  a  loss ! 
and  what  a  gain  to  you !  We  should  have  pos- 
sessed but  a  few  of  your  lyrics,  as 

When  o'er  the  hill  the  eastern  star 
Tells  bughtin-time  is  near,  my  jo; 

And  owsen  frae  the  furrowed  field, 
Return  sae  dowf  and  wearie  O  ! 

How  noble  that  is,  how  natural,  how  unconsciously 
Greek !  You  found,  oddly,  in  good  Mrs.  Bar- 
bauld,  the  merits  of  the  Tenth  Muse : 

In  thy  sweet  sang,  Barbauld,  survives 
Even  Sappho's  flame ! 

But  how  unconsciously  you  remind  us  both  of 
Sappho  and  of  Homer  in  these  strains  about  the 
Evening  Star,  and  the  hour  when  the  Day  ^erevia- 
cero  [3ov?iVT6vde !  Had  you  lived  and  died  the  pas- 
toral poet  of  some  silent  glen,  such  lyrics  could 
not  but  have  survived;  free,  too,  of  all  that  in  your 
songs  reminds  us  of  the  Poet's  Corner  in  the 
Kirkcudbright  Advertiser.  We  should  not  have 
read  how 

Phoebus,  gilding  the  brow  o'  morning, 
Banishes  ilk  darksome  shade ! 


x84  LETTERS   TO  DEAD  AUTHORS 

Still  we  might  keep  a  love-poem  unexcelled  by 
Catullus, 

Had  we  never  loved  sae  kindly, 
Had  we  never  loved  sae  blindly, 
Never  met —  or  never  parted, 
We  had  ne'er  been  broken-hearted. 


But  the  letters  to  Clarinda  would  have  been  un- 
written, and  the  thrush  would  have  been  untaught 
in  "the  style  of  the  Bird  of  Paradise." 

A  quiet  life  of  song,  fallentis  semita  vita,  was 
not  to  be  yours.  Fate  otherwise  decreed  it.  The 
touch  of  a  lettered  society,  the  strife  with  the  Kirk, 
discontent  with  the  State,  poverty  and  pride,  neg- 
lect and  success,  were  needed  to  make  your  Ge- 
nius what  it  was,  and  to  endow  the  world  with 
"Tarn  o'  Shanter,"  the  "Jolly  Beggars,"  and 
"  Holy  Willie's  Prayer."  Who  can  praise  them 
too  highly — who  admire  in  them  too  much  the 
humor,  the  scorn,  the  wisdom,  the  unsurpassed 
energy  and  courage  ?  So  powerful,  so  command- 
ing, is  the  movement  of  that  Beggars'  Chorus, 
that,  methinks,  it  unconsciously  echoed  in  the  brain 
of  our  greatest  living  poet  when  he  conceived  the 
"Vision  of  Sin."  You  shall  judge  for  yourself. 
Recall: 

Here  's  to  budgets,  bags,  and  wallets  ! 

Here  's  to  all  the  wandering  train! 
Here  's  our  ragged  bairns  and  callets ! 

One  and  all  cry  out,  Amen ! 


TO  ROBERT  BURNS 

A  fig  for  those  by  law  protected  ! 

Liberty  's  a  glorious  feast ! 
Courts  for  cowards  were  erected  ! 

Churches  built  to  please  the  priest ! 


Then  read  this : 


Drink  to  lofty  hopes  that  cool — 
Visions  of  a  perfect  state : 

Drink  we,  last,  the  public  fool, 
Frantic  love  and  frantic  hate. 


Drink  to  Fortune,  drink  to  Chance, 

While  we  keep  a  little  breath  ! 
Drink  to  heavy  Ignorance 

Hob  and  nob  with  brother  Death ! 

Is  not  the  movement  the  same,  though  the  mod- 
ern speaks  a  wilder  recklessness  ? 

So  in  the  best  company  we  leave  you,  who  were 
the  life  and  soul  of  so  much  company,  good  and 
bad.  No  poet  since  the  Psalmist  of  Israel  ever 
gave  the  world  more  assurance  of  a  man ;  none 
lived  a  life  more  strenuous,  engaged  in  an  eternal 
conflict  of  the  passions,  and  by  them  overcome  — 
"  mighty  and  mightily  fallen. "  When  we  think  of 
you,  Byron  seems,  as  Plato  would  have  said,  re- 
mote by  one  degree  from  actual  truth,  and  Musset 
by  a  degree  more  remote  than  Byron. 


TO   LORD   BYRON 


XX 


To  Lord  Byron 


Y  LORD, 

(Do  you  remember  how  Leigh  Hunt 
Enraged    you    once  by  writing  My 

dear  Byron  ?} 
Books  have  their  fates, —  as  mortals  have  who 

punt, 
And  yours  have  entered  on  an  age  of  iron. 

Critics  there  be  who  think  your  satire  blunt, 
Your  pathos,  fudge  ;  such  perils  must  environ 
Poets  who  in  their  time  were  quite  the  rage, 
Though  now  there  's  not  a  soul  to  turn  their  page. 

Yes,  there  is  much  dispute  about  your  worth, 
And  much  is   said  which  you   might  like  to 
know 

By  modern  poets  here  upon  the  earth, 
Where  poets  live,  and  love  each  other  so ; 


i go  LETTERS   TO  DEAD  AUTHORS 

And,  in  Elysium,  it  may  move  your  mirth 

To  hear  of  bards  that  pitch  your  praises  low, 
Though  there  be  some  that  for  your  credit  stickle, 
As  —  Glorious  Mat, — and  not  inglorious  Nichol. 

This  kind  of  writing  is  my  pet  aversion, 
I  hate  the  slang,  I  hate  the  personalities, 

I  loathe  the  aimless,  reckless,  loose  dispersion 
Of  every  rhyme  that  in  the  singer's  wallet  is  — 

I  hate  it  as  you  hated  the  "Excursion," 
But,  while  no  man  a  hero  to  his  valet  is, 

The  hero  's  still  the  model ;  I  indite 

The  kind  of  rhymes  that  Byron  oft  would  write. 

There  's  a  Swiss  critic  whom  I  cannot  rhyme  to, 
One  Scherer,  dry  as  sawdust,  grim  and  prim. 

Of  him  there  's  much  to  say,  if  I  had  time  to 
Concern  myself  in  any  wise  with  him. 

He  seems  to  hate  the  heights  he  cannot  climb  to, 
He  thinks  your  poetry  a  coxcomb's  whim, 

A  good  deal  of  his  sawdust  he  has  spilt  on 

Shakspeare,  and  Moliere,  and  you,  and  Milton. 

Ay,  much  his  temper  is  like  Vivien's  mood, 
Which  found  not  Galahad  pure,  nor  Lancelot 
brave ; 

Cold  as  a  hailstorm  on  an  April  wood, 
He  buries  poets  in  an  icy  grave, 

His  Essays — he  of  the  Genevan  hood! 
Nothing  so  good,  but  better  doth  he  crave. 

So  stupid  and  so  solemn  in  his  spite 

He  dares  to  print  that  Moliere  could  not  write ! 


TO  LORD  BYRON  191 

Enough  of  these  excursions ;  I  was  saying 

That  half  our  English  Bards  are  turned  Re- 
viewers, 

And  Arnold  was  discussing  and  assaying 
The  weight  and  value  of  that  work  of  yours, 

Examining  and  testing  it  and  weighing, 
And  proved  the  gems  are  pure,  the  gold  en- 
dures. 

While  Swinburne  cries,  with  an  exceeding  joy, 

The  stones  are  paste,  and  half  the  gold,  alloy. 

In  Byron,  Arnold  finds  the  greatest  force 

Poetic,  in  this  later  age  of  ours ; 
His  song,  a  torrent  from  a  mountain  source, 

Clear  as  the  crystal,  singing  with  the  showers, 
Sweeps  to  the  sea  in  unrestricted  course 

Through  banks  o'erhung  with  rocks  and  sweet 

with  flowers ; 

None  of  your  brooks  that  modestly  meander, 
But  swift  as  Awe  along  the  Pass  of  Brander. 

And  when  our  century  has  clomb  its  crest, 
And  backward  gazes  o'er  the  plains  of  Time, 

And  counts  its  harvest,  yours  is  still  the  best, 
The  richest  garner  in  the  field  of  rhyme 

(The  metaphoric  mixture,  't  is  confest, 
Is  all  my  own,  and  is  not  quite  sublime). 

But  fame  's  not  yours  alone ;  you  must  divide 
all 

The  plums  and  pudding  with  the  Bard  of  Rydal ! 


i92  LETTERS   TO  DEAD  AUTHORS 

WORDSWORTH  and  BYRON,  these  the  lordly  names 
And  these  the  gods  to  whom  most  incense  burns. 

"Absurd !  "  cries  Swinburne,  and  in  anger  flames, 
And  in  an  ^Eschylean  fury  spurns 

With  impious  foot  your  altar,  and  exclaims, 
And  wreathes  his  laurels  on  the  golden  urns 

Where  Coleridge's  and  Shelley's  ashes  lie, 

Deaf  to  the  din  and  heedless  of  the  cry. 

For  Byron  (Swinburne  shouts)  has  never  woven 
One  honest  thread  of  life  within  his  song; 

As  Offenbach  is  to  divine  Beethoven 

So  Byron  is  to  Shelley  {This  is  strong!), 

And  on  Parnassus'  peak,  divinely  cloven, 

He  may  not  stand,  or  stands  by  cruel  wrong; 

For  Byron's  rank  (the  Examiner  has  reckoned) 

Is  in  the  third  class,  or  a  feeble  second. 

"A  Bernesque  poet"  at  the  very  most, 
And  never  earnest  save  in  politics  — 

The  Pegasus  that  he  was  wont  to  boast 

A  blundering,  floundering  hackney,  full  of  tricks, 

A  beast  that  must  be  driven  to  the  post 

By  whips  and  spurs  and  oaths  and  kicks  and 
sticks, 

A  gasping,  ranting,  broken-winded  brute, 

That  any  judge  of  Pegasi  would  shoot; 

In  sooth,  a  half-bred  Pegasus,  and  far  gone 
In  spavin,  curb,  and  half  a  hundred  woes. 

And  Byron's  style  is  "  jolter-headed  jargon  " ; 
His  verse  is  "  only  bearable  in  prose." 


TO  LORD  BYRON  193 

So  living  poets  write  of  those  that  are  gone, 

And  o'er  the  Eagle  thus  the  Bantam  crows ; 
And  Swinburne  ends  where  Verisopht  began, 
By  owning  you  " a  very  clever  man" — 

Or  rather  does  not  end :  he  still  must  utter 
A  quantity  of  the  unkindest  things. 

Ah !  were  you  here,  I  marvel,  would  you  flutter 
O'er  such  a  foe  the  tempest  of  your  wings  ? 

'T  is  "  rant  and  cant  and  glare  and  splash  and 

splutter  " 
That  rend  the  modest  air  when  Byron  sings. 

There  Swinburne  stops :  a  critic  rather  fiery. 

Animis  cczlestibus  tantcene  ir<z? 

But  whether  he  or  Arnold  in  the  right  is, 
Long  is  the  argument,  the  quarrel  long ; 

Non  nobis  est  to  settle  tantas  lites ; 
No  poet  I,  to  judge  of  right  or  wrong : 

But  of  all  things  I  always  think  a  fight  is 
The  most  unpleasant  in  the  lists  of  song ; 

When  Marsyas  of  old  was  flayed,  Apollo 

Set  an  example  which  we  need  not  follow. 

The  fashion  changes  !  Maidens  do  not  wear, 
As  once  they  wore,  in  necklaces  and  lockets 

A  curl  ambrosial  of  Lord  Byron's  hair; 

"  Don  Juan  "  is  not  always  in  our  pockets — 

Nay,  a  NEW  WRITER'S  readers  do  not  care 

Much  for  your  verse,  but  are  inclined  to  mock  its 

Manners  and  morals.    Ay,  and  most  young  ladies 

To  yours  prefer  the  "  Epic  "  called  "  of  Hades  "  ! 


194  LETTERS   TO  DEAD  AUTHORS 

I  do  not  blame  them ;  I  'm  inclined  to  think 
That  with  the  reigning  taste  't  is  vain  to  quarrel, 

And  Burns  might  teach  his  votaries  to  drink, 
And  Byron  never  meant  to  make  them  moral. 

You  yet  have  lovers  true,  who  will  not  shrink 
From  lauding  you  and  giving  you  the  laurel ; 

The  Germans  too,  those  men  of  blood  and  iron, 

Of  all  our  poets  chiefly  swear  by  Byron. 

Farewell,  thou  Titan  fairer  than  the  gods ! 

Farewell,  farewell,  thou  swift  and  lovely  spirit, 
Thou  splendid  warrior  with  the  world  at  odds, 

Unpraised,  unpraisable,  beyond  thy  merit ; 
Chased,  like  Orestes,  by  the  furies'  rods, 

Like  him  at  length  thy  peace  dost  thou  inherit; 
Beholding  whom,  men  think  how  fairer  far 
Than  all  the  steadfast  stars  the  wandering  star !  1 

1  Mr.  Swinburne's  and  Mr.  Arnold's  diverse  views  of 
Byron  will  be  found  in  the  "  Selections"  by  Mr.  Arnold  and 
in  the  Nineteenth  Century. 


TO    OMAR    KHAYYAM 


XXI 


To  Omar  Khayyam 


ISE  Omar,  do  the  Southern   Breezes 

fling 
Above  your  Grave,  at  ending  of  the 

Spring, 

The  Snowdrift  of  the  petals  of  the  Rose, 
The  wild  white  Roses  you  were  wont  to  sing  ? 

Far  in  the  South  I  know  a  Land  divine,! 
And  there  is  many  a  Saint  and  many  a  Shrine, 
And  over  all  the  shrines  the  Blossom  blows 
Of  Roses  that  were  dear  to  you  as  wine. 

You  were  a  Saint  of  unbelieving  days, 
Liking  your  Life  and  happy  in  men's  Praise ; 

Enough  for  you  the  Shade  beneath  the  Bough, 
Enough  to  watch  the  wild  World  go  its  Ways. 

1  The   hills  above    San   Remo,   where   rose-bushes   are 
planted  by  the  shrines.     Omar  desired  that  his  grave  might 
be  where  the  wind  would  scatter  rose-leaves  over  it. 
197 


198  LETTERS   TO  DEAD  AUTHORS 

Dreadless  and  hopeless  thou  of  Heaven  or  Hell, 
Careless  of  Words  thou  hadst  not  Skill  to  spell, 

Content  to  know  not  all  thou  knowest  now, 
What  's  Death?     Doth  any   Pitcher  dread  the 
Well? 

The  Pitchers  we,  whose  Maker  makes  them  ill, 
Shall  He  torment  them  if  they  chance  to  spill? 

Nay,  like  the  broken  potsherds  are  we  cast 
Forth  and  forgotten, —  and  what  will  be  will ! 

So  still  were  we,  before  the  Months  began 
That  rounded  us  and  shaped  us  into  Man. 
So  still  we  shall  be,  surely,  at  the  last, 
Dreamless,  untouched  of  Blessing  or  of  Ban ! 

Ah,   strange   it    seems    that    this    thy   common 

thought  — 
How  all   things   have  been,    ay,   and   shall    be 

nought — 

Was  ancient  Wisdom  in  thine  ancient  East, 
In  those  old  Days  when  Senlac  fight  was  fought, 

Which  gave  our  England  for  a  captive  Land 
To  pious  Chiefs  of  a  believing  Band, 

A  gift  to  the  Believer  from  the  Priest, 
Tossed  from  the  holy  to  the  blood-red  Hand !  1 

Yea,  thou  wert  singing  when  that  Arrow  clave 
Through  helm  and  brain  of  him  who  could  not  save 

1  Omar  was  contemporary  with  the  battle  of  Hastings. 


TO  OMAR  KHAYYAM  199 

His  England,  even  of  Harold,  Godwin's  son ; 
The  high  tide  murmurs  by  the  Hero's  grave !  1 

And  thou  wert  wreathing  Roses  —  who  can  tell  ?  — 
Or  chanting  for  some  girl  that  pleased  thee  well, 

Or  satst  at  wine  in  Nashapur,  when  dun 
The  twilight  veiled  the  field  where  Harold  fell ! 

The  salt  Sea- waves  above  him  rage  and  roam ! 
Along  the  white  Walls  of  his  guarded  Home 

No  Zephyr  stirs  the  Rose,  but  o'er  the  wave 
The  wild  Wind  beats  the  Breakers  into  Foam ! 

And  dear  to  him,  as  Roses  were  to  thee, 
Rings  long  the  Roar  of  Onset  of  the  Sea; 

The  Swan's  Path  of  his  Fathers  is  his  grave : 
His  sleep,  methinks,  is  sound  as  thine  can  be. 

His  was  the  Age  of  Faith,  when  all  the  West 
Looked  to  the  Priest  for  torment  or  for  rest ; 

And  thou  wert  living  then,  and  didst  not  heed 
The  Saint  who  banned  thee  or  the  Saint  who 
blessed ! 

Ages  of  Progress  !     These  eight  hundred  years 
Hath  Europe  shuddered  with  her  hopes  or  fears, 

And  now!  — she  listens  in  the  wilderness 
To  thee,  and  half  believeth  what  she  hears  ! 

Hadst  thou  THE  SECRET  ?   Ah,  and  who  may  tell  ? 
"An  hour  we  have,"  thou  saidst.  "  Ah,waste  it  well ! " 

1  Per  mandata  Ducis,  Rex  hie,  Heralde,  quiescis, 
Ut  custos  maneas  littoris  et  pelagi. 


v 


200  LETTERS   TO  DEAD  AUTHORS 

An  hour  we  have,  and  yet  Eternity 
Looms    o'er  us,  and  the  thought  of  Heaven  or 
Hell ! 

Nay,  we  can  never  be  as  wise  as  thou, 
O  idle  singer  'neath  the  blossomed  bough. 

Nay,  and  we  cannot  be  content  to  die. 
We  cannot  shirk  the  questions  "  Where  ?  "  and 
"How?" 

Ah,  not  from  learned  Peace  and  gay  Content 
Shall  we  of  England  go  the  way  he  went — 

The  Singer  of  the  Red  Wine  and  the  Rose  — 
Nay,  otherwise  than  his  our  Day  is  spent ! 

Serene  he  dwelt  in  fragrant  Nashapur, 
But  we  must  wander  while  the  Stars  endure. 
He  knew  THE  SECRET  :    we  have   none  that 

knows, 
No  Man  so  sure  as  Omar  once  was  sure ! 


TO   Q.  HORATIUS  FLACCUS 


XXII 


To  Q.  Horatius  Flaccus 


N  what  manner  of  Paradise  are  we  to 
conceive  that  you,  Horace,  are  dwelling, 
or  what  region  of  immortality  can  give 
you  such  pleasures  as  this  life  afforded  ? 
The  country  and  the  town,  nature  and  men,  who 
knew  them  so  well  as  you,  or  who  ever  so  wisely 
made  the  best  of  those  two  worlds  ?  Truly  here 
you  had  good  things,  nor  do  you  ever,  in  all  your 
poems,  look  for  more  delight  in  the  life  beyond; 
you  never  expect  consolation  for  present  sorrow, 
and  when  you  once  have  shaken  hands  with  a  friend 
the  parting  seems  to  you  eternal. 

Quis  desiderio  sit  pudor  aut  modus 
Tarn  cari  capitis  ? 

So  you  sing,  for  the  dear  head  you  mourn  has  sunk 

forever  beneath  the  wave.      Virgil  might  wander 

forth  bearing  the  golden  branch  "the  Sibyl  doth  to 

203 


204  LETTERS   TO  DEAD  AUTHORS 

singing  men  allow,"  and  might  visit,  as  one  not 
wholly  without  hope,  the  dim  dwellings  of  the 
dead  and  the  unborn.  To  him  was  it  permitted  to 
see  and  sing  "mothers  and  men,  and  the  bodies 
outworn  of  mighty  heroes,  boys  and  unwedded 
maids,  and  young  men  borne  to  the  funeral  fire 
before  their  parents'  eyes."  The  endless  caravan 
swept  past  him  —  "many  as  fluttering  leaves  that 
drop  and  fall  in  autumn  woods  when  the  first  frost 
begins ;  many  as  birds  that  flock  landward  from 
the  great  sea  when  now  the  chill  year  drives  them 
o'er  the  deep,  and  leads  them  to  sunnier  lands." 
Such  things  was  it  given  the  sacred  poet  to  behold, 
and  the  happy  seats  and  sweet  pleasances  of  for- 
tunate souls,  where  the  larger  light  clothes  all  the 
plains  and  dips  them  in  a  rosier  gleam,  plains  with 
their  own  new  sun  and  stars  before  unknown. 
Ah,  notfrustra  plus  was  Virgil,  as  you  say,  Hor- 
ace, in  your  melancholy  song.  In  him,  we  fancy, 
there  was  a  happier  mood  than  your  melancholy 
patience.  "Not,  though  thou  wert  sweeter  of  song 
than  Thracian  Orpheus,  with  that  lyre  whose  lay 
led  the  dancing  trees,  not  so  would  the  blood  re- 
turn to  the  empty  shade  of  him  whom  once  with 
dread  wand  the  inexorable  god  hath  folded  with 
his  shadowy  flocks ;  but  patience  lighteneth  what 
heaven  forbids  us  to  undo." 

Durum,  sed  levius  fit  patientia  ! 

It  was  all  your  philosophy  in  that  last  sad  resort 
to  which  we  are  pushed  so  often  — 

With  close-lipped  Patience  for  our  only  friend, 
Sad  Patience,  too  near  neighbor  of  Despair. 


TO  Q.  HORATIUS  FLACCUS  205 

The  Epicurean  is  at  one  with  the  Stoic  at  last, 
and  Horace  with  Marcus  Aurelius.  "  To  go  away 
from  among  men,  if  there  are  gods,  is  not  a  thing 
to  be  afraid  of;  but  if  indeed  they  do  not  exist,  or 
if  they  have  no  concern  about  human  affairs,  what 
is  it  to  me  to  live  in  a  universe  devoid  of  gods  or 
devoid  of  providence  ?  " 

An  excellent  philosophy,  but  easier  to  those  for 
whom  no  Hope  had  dawned  or  seemed  to  set.  Yet 
it  is  harder  than  common,  Horace,  for  us  to  think 
of  you,  still  glad  somewhere,  among  rivers  like 
Liris  and  plains  and  vine-clad  hills,  that 

Solemque  suum,  sua  sidera  norunt. 
It  is   hard,  for  you  looked  for  no  such  thing. 

Omnes  una  manet  nox 
Et  calcanda  semel  via  leti. 

You  could  not  tell  Maecenas  that  you  would  meet 
him  again ;  you  could  only  promise  to  tread  the 
dark  path  with  him. 

Ibimus,  ibimus, 

Utcunque  praecedes,  supremum 
Carpere  iter  comites  parati. 

Enough,  Horace,  of  these  mortuary  musings. 
You  loved  the  lesson  of  the  roses,  and  now  and 
again  would  speak  somewhat  like  a  death's-head 
over  thy  temperate  cups  of  Sabine  ordinaire.  Your 
melancholy  moral  was  but  meant  to  heighten  the 
joy  of  thy  pleasant  life,  when  wearied  Italy,  after 
all  her  wars  and  civic  bloodshed,  had  won  a  peace- 
ful haven.  The  harbor  might  be  treacherous;  the 


206  LETTERS   TO  DEAD  AUTHORS 

prince  might  turn  to  the  tyrant ;  far  away  on  the 
wide  Roman  marches  might  be  heard,  as  it  were, 
the  endless,  ceaseless  monotone  of  beating  horses' 
hoofs  and  marching  feet  of  men.  They  were  com- 
ing, they  were  nearing,  like  footsteps  heard  on 
wool ;  there  was  a  sound  of  multitudes  and  mil- 
lions of  barbarians,  all  the  North,  ojficina  gentium, 
mustering  and  marshalling  her  peoples.  But  their 
coming  was  not  to  be  to-day,  nor  to-morrow ;  nor 
to-day  was  the  budding  princely  sway  to  blossom 
into  the  blood-red  flower  of  Nero.  In  the  lull  be- 
tween the  two  tempests  of  Republic  and  Empire 
your  odes  sound  "  like  linnets  in  the  pauses  of  the 
wind." 

What  joy  there  is  in  these  songs  !  what  delight 
of  life,  what  an  exquisite  Hellenic  grace  of  art, 
what  a  manly  nature  to  endure,  what  tenderness 
and  constancy  of  friendship,  what  a  sense  of  all 
that  is  fair  in  the  glittering  stream,  the  music  of 
the  waterfall,  the  hum  of  bees,  the  silvery  gray  of 
the  olive  woods  on  the  hillside !  How  human  are 
all  your  yprg^g|  TTorqppj  what  a  pleasure  is  yours 
in  the  straining  poplars,  swaying  in  the  wind! 
what  gladness  you  gain  from  the  white  crest  of 
Soracte,  beheld  through  the  fluttering  snow-flakes 
while  the  logs  are  being  piled  higher  on  the 
hearth.  You  sing  of  women  and  wine — not  all 
whole-hearted  in  your  praise  of  them,  perhaps, 
for  passion  frightens  you,  and  't  is  pleasure  more 
than  love  that  you  commend  to  the  young.  Lydia 
and  Glycera,  and  the  others,  are  but  passing 


TO   Q.  HORATIUS  FLACCUS  207 

guests  of  a  heart  at  ease  in  itself,  and  happy 
enough  when  their  facile  reign  is  ended.  You 
seem  to  me  like  a  man  who  welcomes  middle  age, 
and  is  more  glad  than  Sophocles  was  to  "flee 
from  these  hard  masters  "  the  passions.  In  the 
'*  fallow  leisure  of  life  "  you  glance  round  contented, 
and  find  all  very  good  save  the  need  to  leave  all 
behind.  Even  that  you  take  with  an  Italian 
good-humor,  as  the  folk  of  your  sunny  country 
bear  poverty  and  hunger. 

Durum,  sed  levius  fit  palientia ! 

To  them,  to  you,  the  loveliness  of  your  land  is, 
and  was,  a  thing  to  live  for.  None  of  the  Latin 
poets  your  fellows,  or  none  but  Virgil,  seem  to 
me  to  have  known  so  well  as  you,  Horace,  how 
happy  and  fortunate  a  thing  it  was  to  be  born  in 
Italy.  You  do  not  say  so,  like  your  Virgil,  in  one 
splendid  passage,  numbering  the  glories  of  the 
land  as  a  lover  might  count  the  perfections  of  his 
mistress.  But  the  sentiment  is  ever  in  your  heart 
and  often  on  your  lips. 

Me  nee  tarn  patiens  Lacedaemon, 
Nee  tarn  Larissse  percussit  campus  opimae, 

Quam  domus  Albuneae  resonantis 
Et  praeceps  Anio,  ac  Tiburni  lucus,  et  uda 

Mobilibus  pomaria  rivis.1 

1  "Me  neither  resolute  Sparta  nor  the  rich  Larissaean 
plain  so  enraptures  as  the  fane  of  echoing  Albunea,  the  head- 
long Anio,  the  grove  of  Tibur,  the  orchards  watered  by  the 
wandering  rills." 


208  LETTERS   TO  DEAD  AUTHORS 

So  a  poet  should  speak,  and  to  every  singer  his 
own  land  should  be  dearest.  Beautiful  is  Italy 
with  the  grave  and  delicate  outlines  of  her  sacred 
hills,  her  dark  groves,  her  little  cities  perched  like 
eyries  on  the  crags,  her  rivers  gliding  under 
ancient  walls ;  beautiful  is  Italy,  her  seas,  and  her 
suns :  but  dearer  to  me  the  long  gray  wave  that 
bites  the  rock  below  the  minster  in  the  north ; 
dearer  is  the  barren  moor  and  the  black  peat- 
water  swirling  in  tanny  foam,  and  the  scent  of  bog 
myrtle  and  the  bloom  of  heather,  and,  watching 
over  the  lochs,  the  green  round-shouldered  hills. 

In  affection  for  your  native  land,  Horace,  cer- 
tainly the  pride  in  great  Romans  dead  and  gone 
made  part,  and  you  were,  in  all  senses,  a  lover  of 
your  country,  your  country's  heroes,  your  coun- 
try's gods.  None  but  a  patriot  could  have  sung 
that  ode  on  Regulus,  who  died,  as  our  own  hero 
died,  on  an  evil  day  for  the  honor  of  Rome,  as 
Gordon  for  the  honor  of  England. 

Fertur  pudicae  conjugis  osculum, 
Parvosque  natos,  ut  capitis  minor, 
Ab  se  removisse,  et  virilem 
Torvus  humi  posuisse  voltum : 

Donee  labantes  consilio  patres 
Firmaret  auctor  nunquam  alias  dato, 
Interque  maerentes  amicos 
Egregius  properaret  exul. 

Atqui  sciebat,  quse  sibi  barbarus 
Tortor  pararet :  non  aliter  tamen 


TO   Q.  HORATIUS  FLACCUS  209 

Dimovit  obstantes  propinquos, 
Et  populum  reditus  morantem, 

Quam  si  clientum  longa  negotia 
Dijudicata  lite  relinqueret, 
Tendens  Venafranos  in  agros 
Aut  Lacedaemonium  Tarentum.1 

We  talk  of  the  Greeks  as  your  teachers.  Your 
teachers  they  were,  but  that  poem  could  only  have 
been  written  by  a  Roman !  The  strength,  the 
tenderness,  the  noble  and  monumental  resolution 
and  resignation  —  these  are  the  gift  of  the  lords  of 
human  things,  the  masters  of  the  world. 

Your  country's  heroes  are  dear  to  you,  Horace, 
but  you  did  not  sing  them  better  than  your 
country's  gods,  the  pious  protecting  spirits  of 
the  hearth,  the  farm,  the  field,  kindly  ghosts,  it 
may  be,  of  Latin  fathers  dead,  or  gods  framed  in 
the  image  of  these.  What  you  actually  believed  we 
know  not,  you  knew  not.  Who  knows  what  he 
believes  ?  Parcus  Deorum  cultor,  you  bowed  not 

1  "They  say  he  put  aside  from  him  the  pure  lips  of  his 
wife  and  his  little  children,  like  a  man  unfree,  and  with  his 
brave  face  bowed  earthward  sternly  he  waited  till  with  such 
counsel  as  never  mortal  gave  he  might  strengthen  the  hearts 
of  the  Fathers,  and  through  his  mourning  friends  go  forth,  a 
hero,  into  exile.  Yet  well  he  knew  what  things  were  being 
prepared  for  him  at  the  hands  of  the  tormentors,  who,  none 
the  less,  put  aside  the  kinsmen  that  barred  his  path  and  the 
people  that  would  fain  have  held  him  back,  passing  through 
their  midst  as  he  might  have  done  if,  his  retainers'  weary 
business  ended  and  the  suits  adjudged,  he  were  faring  to  his 
Venafran  lands  or  to  Dorian  Tarentum." 


2io  LETTERS   TO  DEAD  AUTHORS 

often,  it  may  be,  in  the  temples  of  the  state  religion 
and  before  the  statues  of  the  great  Olympians ;  but 
the  pure  and  pious  worship  of  rustic  tradition,  the 
faith  handed  down  by  the  homely  elders,  with  that 
you  never  broke.  Clean  hands  and  a  pure  heart, 
these  with  a  sacred  cake  and  shining  grains  of  salt, 
you  could  offer  to  the  Lares.  It  was  a  benignant 
religion,  uniting  old  times  and  new,  men  living  and 
men  long  dead  and  gone,  in  a  kind  of  service  and 
sacrifice  solemn  yet  familiar. 

Te  nihil  attinet 

Tentare  multa  caede  bidentium 
Parvos  coronantem  marino 
Rore  decs  fragilique  myrto. 

Immunis  aram  si  tetigit  manus, 
Non  sumptuosa  blandior  hostia 
Mollivit  aversos  Penates 
Farre  pio  et  saliente  mica.1 

Farewell,  dear  Horace ;  farewell,  thou  wise  and 
kindly  heathen ;  of  mortals  the  most  human,  the 
friend  of  my  friends  and  of  so  many  generations 
of  men. 

1  "  Thou,  Phidyle,  hast  no  need  to  besiege  the  gods  with 
slaughter  so  great  of  sheep,  thou  who  crownest  thy  tiny 
deities  with  myrtle  rare  and  rosemary.  If  but  the  hand  be 
clean  that  touches  the  altar,  then  richest  sacrifice  will  not 
more  appease  the  angered  Penates  than  the  duteous  cake 
and  salt  that  crackles  in  the  blaze." 


TO   MAISTER   IOHN   KNOX 


XXIII 

To  Maister  lohn  Knox 

^AISTER  KNOX,— Were  you  alive  to 
answer  me  in  your  accustomed  fashion, 
to  move  heaven  and  earth,  and  Mr. 
Wynram,  the  Superintendent  of  Fife, 
against  me,  I  misdoubt  me  that  I  would  not  now  be 
addressing  you  so  freely.  For  if  it  be  true  that  you 
"never  feared  the  face  of  man,"  certainly  the  face 
of  you,  "dinging  the  pulpit  to  blads,"  as  you  de- 
nounced me  in  the  Town  Kirk,  would  be  likely  to 
affray  me.  Probably  you  would  make  the  Kirk  cut 
me  off  and  deliver  me  to  Satan,  and  to  the  temporal 
penalties  which,  in  the  hands  of  later  revolution- 
aries, your  secular  successors,  are  named  "Boycot- 
ting. "  Many  a  time,  when  I  read  your  "  Historic  of 
the  Reformation"  and  yourletters,have  I  wondered 
how  a  quiet  scholar  could  thole  life  when  "  ane 
Knox,"  as  the  ancient  lady  said,  "  was  deaving  us 
with  his  clavers."  Methinks,  such  an  one  as  I 
213 


2i4          LETTERS  TO  DEAD  AUTHORS 

might  have  been  a  canon  of  the  Priory,  a  peaceful 
wight,  transcribing  manuscripts,  or  trying  to  learn 
something  of  the  Greek  tongue,  then  rarely  known 
in  our  country.  Or  such  an  one  might  have  been 
a  Regent  in  the  college  of  St.  Leonard,  or  of 
St.  Salvator,  playing  his  feeble  game  of  golf,  and 
teaching  the  young  lads.  In  any  case  he  would 
have  been  brought  up  in  the  faith  Catholic,  he 
would  have  read  Luther,  and  "  Patrick's  Places," 
he  would  have  had  his  doubts  concerning  Purga- 
tory and  other  mysterious  matters,  but  he  would 
have  "  kept  a  still  sough  "  and  tried  to  live  as  well 
as  he  might.  Then  your  friends  came  and  stabbed 
the  Cardinal,  and  salted  him  with  salt,  and  held 
his  castle,  and  robbed  the  country  round,  while 
you,  Maister  Knox,  thundering  from  the  pulpit 
now  occupied  by  A.  K.  H.  B.,  declared  that 
Daniel  prophesied  the  Mystery  of  Iniquity  in 
the  Pope.  Ah,  Maister  Knox,  criticism  which,  in 
your  day,  had  reached  the  Pope,  has  now  gone  so 
far  as  to  doubt  about  Daniel,  whether  he  did  not 
prophesy  many  matters  after  the  event.  Concern- 
ing the  Bishop  of  Rome  it  is  certain  that  he  had 
nothing  to  say.  I  should  have  rejoiced,  perchance, 
when  the  galleys  of  Leo  Strozzi  sailed  into  the  bay, 
when  the  guns  were  planted  on  St.  Salvator's 
spire,  when  the  castle  was  knocked  about  the  ears 
of  your  valor,  and  you  were  carried  out  of  our 
hearing,  and  chained  to  the  oar. 

But  how  I  should  have  winced  when  you  re- 
turned in  power,  with  your  mail-clad  Lords  of 


TO  MAISTER  IOHN  KNOX  215 

the  Congregation,  and  your  "  rascal  multitude," 
when  you  defiled  the  holy  places,  and  burned  the 
holy  things,  and  melted  down  the  pyxes  and 
crucifixes,  the  gold  and  silver  plenishing  of  my 
college,  and  destroyed  the  rare  manuscripts,  and 
left  all  a  ruin.  Whither,  then,  was  a  peaceful 
scholar  to  turn  himself?  How  uncomfortable  must 
have  been  the  gulp  which  swallowed  the  whole 
"  Trewth  "  as  discovered  by  Calvin,  and  promul- 
gated by  Maister  Knox!  Yet,  not  to  gulp  it 
down,  to  continue  true  to  the  old  faith,  was  to  lose 
home  and  gear,  and  life  at  last,  and  few  monks 
chose  to  be  martyrs.  Verily,  I  owe  you  a  post- 
humous grudge,  for  all  that  you  certainly  would 
have  done  to  me,  had  I,  in  your  day,  been  num- 
bered among  the  living;  for  all  the  ruin  you 
wrought,  for  all  "  the  wyte  of  the  troubles  in 
Scotland."  You  destroyed,  as  Quentin  Kennedy 
told  you,  and  you  could  not  rebuild :  nay,  though 
you  were  fain  to  have  rebuilt,  the  greedy  nobles 
were  too  strong  for  you. 

"What  I  have  been  to  my  country,"  you  said, 
beholding  the  wreck  and  riot  of  your  latest  years, 
"albeit  this  unthankful  age  will  not  know;  yet 
the  ages  to  come  will  bear  witness  to  the  truth." 
Witness  enough,  and  gratitude  enough,  your 
friends  "  in  the  ages  to  come  "  have  borne  and 
shown.  But  others  there  be  who  ask  if  good  could 
come  from  a  Christian  that  had  so  little  of  the 
spirit  of  his  Master.  Gentleness,  kindness,  cour- 
tesy, a  spirit  without  rancor  or  revenge :  these 


ai6  LETTERS  TO  DEAD  AUTHORS 

things  were  in  the  great  Example  set  before  you. 
And  which  of  these  was  yours  ?  which  of  these 
did  you  teach?  You,  the  patron  and  abettor  of 
murderers ;  you,  who  chuckle  over  the  "loathsome 
legs"  of  a  dying  royal  lady;  you,  who  grin  at 
the  slaughter  of  a  priest  in  cold  blood;  you,  who 
fled  —  your  conscience  accusing  you  —  when  the 
daggers  of  your  friends  had  clashed  in  the  body  of 
Rizzio;  you,  who  urged  from  a  text  in  "Kings" 
the  slaying  of  your  Queen  ;  you,  whose  last  words 
delivered  to  death  an  old  friend,  the  chivalrous 
Kirkaldy  of  Grange;  you,  who,  pretending  a  di- 
vine commission,  gave,  from  your  own  death- 
bed, that  brave  man  to  a  death  of  shame  — you  a 
Christian ! 

Nay,  you  were  a  pre-Christian;  a  Hebrew  of 
the  Hebrews ;  a  prophet  out  of  that  age  of  blood 
and  treason,  the  days  of  the  kings  of  Israel.  It 
was  not  from  your  Master's  lips,  but  from 
those  of  violent  fakirs  long  ago,  that  you  drew 
your  Gospel,  ever  quoting  a  text  out  of  place 
and  out  of  sense  from  the  ancient  Scriptures 
when  some  black  deed  had  to  be  justified.  You 
came  to  deliver  us  from  the  tyranny  of  the  priest, 
and  you  handed  us  over  to  the  tyranny  of  the 
Presbyterian  prophets.  You  scourged  us  with  scor- 
pions in  place  of  rods ;  your  little  ringer  was 
thicker  than  the  loins  of  the  former  oppressors. 
The  ministers  whom  you  set  up,  and  who  fol- 
lowed in  your  steps,  were  for  being  lawgivers, 
judges,  magistrates,  kings  —  for  were  they  not 


TO  MAISTER  IOHN  KNOX  217 

prophets,  and  admitted  to  the  secret  councils  of 
the  Most  High?  were  they  not  miracle-workers, 
casting  out  devils,  exorcising  fiends,  burning 
witches  —  often  for  doing  the  very  marvels  of 
which  they  claimed  the  monopoly  ?  The  religion 
which  had  been  the  faith  of  all  Christendom  was 
turned  into  "  idolatry  "  in  a  day,  by  the  word  of 
you  and  those  like  you.  And  you  added,  «'the 
idolater  ought  to  die  the  death." 

Your  admirers  applaud  your  humor.  A  man  of 
humor,  even  if  he  had  no  other  qualifications, 
must  have  smiled  at  the  absurdity  of  such  preten- 
sions. As  Lethington  said  when  you  argued 
from  the  Old  Testament,  and  rejected  such  pas- 
sages of  St.  James  in  the  New  as  were  not  to 
your  liking,  "  These  were  singular  motions  of  the 
Spirit  of  God  and  appertane  not  to  our  age." 
But  you  never  perceived  your  own  prodigious 
anachronism,  and  you  left  your  country  a  succes- 
sion of  preaching  firebrands,  holy  men  of  blood, 
prophets  and  workers  of  miracles ;  in  every  parish 
a  Pope,  and  more  than  a  Pope  —  persecutors  who 
put  Father  Ogilvie  in  the  Boot,  and  tortured  "  idol- 
aters" by  keeping  them  awake  till  their  minds 
reeled  in  frenzy.  This  is  part  of  what  you  were 
to  your  country ;  your  legacy  was  not  peace  but  a 
sword,  not  gentleness  but  many  years  of  civil  war, 
not  beauty  but  baldness. 

"Revolutions  are  not  made  with  rose-water," 
but  a  reformed  need  not  have  answered  an  un- 
reformed  church  with  blood  and  fire.  Your  elo- 


218  LETTERS   TO  DEAD  AUTHORS 

quence  (like  that  of  many  in  our  land)  consists 
much  of  the  word  "bloudie,"  in  vain  repetitions 
of  "bloudie."  Whosoever  disagrees  with  you  is 
branded  as  "  bloudie,"  unless  he  escapes  with  the 
milder  taunt  of  being  "an  old  boss."  This  rhet- 
oric is  not  classical,  yet  let  me  own  that  your 
literary  opponents  were  little  more  choice  in  their 
speech.  The  stories  of  profligacy  told  against 
lohn  Knox,  the  taunts  of  cowardice,  founded  on 
retreats  which  were  merely  and  wisely  strategic, 
are  as  baseless  as  any  charge  of  personal  interest 
or  dishonesty  would  be,  if  ever  any  such  were 
made. 

A  braver  man,  a  man  in  his  private  aims  more 
honest  and  pure  (if  in  politics  no  better  than  other 
politicians),  Scotland  never  bore.  lohn  Knox, 
with  all  his  opportunities,  died  a  poor  man,  a  pa- 
triot (as  he  understood  patriotism),  uncorrupted, 
a  demagogue  whose  hands  were  clean  of  gold. 

On  the  chapter  of  womankind,  your  history  is 
curious  to  the  last  degree.  What  was  it  you  did, 
and  bade  Mrs.  Bowes  recall,  "standing  at  the 
cupboard  at  Alnwick,"  when  the  lady  was  "  re- 
hearsing her  infirmities  "  ?  A  strange  peep  into  a 
dead  world  is  this :  the  penitent  and  the  amateur 
confessor  are  seen  for  a  moment  of  time,  and  the 
veil  falls  again.  And  then  you  married  the  "  dearly 
beloved  .sister's  "  daughter,  and  later,  when  near 
sixty,  "  an  auld  decrepit  body,"  as  Nichol  Burne 
says,  you  took  to  your  bosom  a  lassie  of  sixteen,  a 
noble  girl  of  King's  blood.  A  student  of  your  life 


TO  MAISTER  IOHN  KNOX 


219 


calls  her  "  the  poor  child."  As,  on  your  decease, 
the  poor  child  wedded  Ker  of  Faldonside,  the 
most  ruffianly  of  the  ruffians  who  slew  Rizzio 
before  the  eyes  of  the  Queen,  I  presume  that  she 
preferred  a  lord  of  energetic  character,  and  that 
you  had  a  fascination  which  set  years  at  naught. 
It  may  have  been  a  love  marriage,  after  all, —  such 
things  have  been  in  cases  as  unlikely, —  and  you 
may — nay,  you  must — have  had  charm,  though 
of  all  qualities  charm  is  least  conspicuous  in  your 
hard,  potent,  fiery  writings,  in  a  style  suited  for  a 
graver  of  steel  on  a  sheet  of  Northern  granite. 

They  did  not  love  you  at  St.  Andrew's,  among 
the  colleges,  which  you  left  at  last,  "  not  without 
dolour  and  displeasure  of  the  few  godly,  but  to  the 
great  joy  and  pleasure  of  the  rest,"  as  your  secre- 
tary writes.  And  you  denounced  "  the  prophane 
learning  of  the  Epicureans  "  no  less  loudly  than 
you  denounced  the  bad  Latin  of  the  priests. 
Those  who  are  of  the  party  of  Erasmus  will  never 
be  friends  of  lohn  Knox.  But  "  it  takes  all  sorts 
to  make  a  world,"  and,  if  you  were  no  humanist, 
and  a  very  queer  kind  of  Christian,  truly  you  gave 
the  world  assurance  of  a  man,  though,  as  Leth- 
ington  said,  of  "a  man  subject  to  vanity."  No 
liberties  might  be  taken  with  you  while  that  two- 
handed  sword  of  yours,  which  guarded  George 
Wishart,  was  to  the  fore.  There  is  much  admira- 
tion in  our  inborn  antipathy  to  the  old  man  trucu- 
lent; the  indomitable  hero  who  feared  not  steel 
nor  fire,  and  who  mocked  at  the  tears  and  "owl- 


220          LETTERS  TO  DEAD  AUTHORS 

ings  "  of  the  subduer  of  hearts, —  Maria  Verticor- 
dia, —  the  fair,  the  brave,  the  fated,  the  irredeem- 
able Queen  of  Scots.  Yes,  there  is  admiration, 
and  envy,  perhaps,  in  our  estimate  of  you.  Not 
much  addicted  to  the  Muses,  you  may  not  care  for 
words  which  seem  meant  for  you. 

These  sterner  spirits  let  me  prize, 
Who,  though  the  tendence  of  the  whole 

They  less  than  we  might  recognize, 

Kept,  more  than  we,  their  strength  of  soul. l 

1  "  Empedocles  on  Etna,"  p.  162.  London,  1852.  Periculo 
meo,  I  read  "less  than  we"  "more  than  we."  Mr.  Arnold 
wrote  " less  than  us"  "more  than  us." 


TO   THE 
REVEREND  INCREASE  MATHER 


XXIV 


To  the  Reverend  Increase  Mather 


JIR, — You  may  chance  to  have  heard  of 
Mr.  Samuel  Pepys,  a  worldly  man,  yet 
not  without  some  inward  stirrings,  who 
for  a  long  time  served  their  late  majes- 
ties King  Charles  the  Second  and  King  James 
his  brother.  Mr.  Pepys,  in  his  Diary,  mentions 
that  he  was  delighted  "with  the  simplicity  and 
innocence  of  a  Lady."  In  reading  your  "Essay 
for  the  Recording  of  Illustrious  Providences,"  ! 
your  innocence  and  simplicity  give  me  an  unusual 
degree  of  pleasure.  Born  at  Dorchester  in  New 
England,  a  student  of  Trinity  College,  Dublin, 
you,  Sir,  retired  to  your  native  wilderness  rather 
than  adopt  the  Service  Book  at  the  order  of  King 
Charles.  Like  precious  Mr.  James  Guthrie,  who 
testified  in  the  Grass  Market,  perhaps  you  saw  in 

1  Boston,  in  New  England,  1684. 
223 


224  LETTERS   TO  DEAD  AUTHORS 

the  Service  Book  "  the  Mystery  of  Iniquity,  whose 
steps  lead  unto  the  great"  lady  of  pleasure,  let  us 
say,  "even  Babylon."  Though  this  maybe  an 
illiberal  view  of  the  Prayer  Book,  yet  we  must  re- 
spect the  minister  who  deserted  a  polite  country  for 
the  savage  purlieus  of  Boston,  where  you  so  long 
were  the  teacher  of  the  North  Church.  Beset  by 
Indians,  and  all  the  forces  of  Satan,  beleaguered  by 
wild  men  without,  and  infested  by  witches  within, 
you  and  your  brethren  could  not  but  be  attentive 
to  the  miraculous  forces  which  attacked  or  de- 
fended you.  To  no  better  scholar  nor  more  be- 
lieving soul  could  the  general  council  of  ministers, 
in  1681,  have  entrusted  the  history  of  Illustrious 
Providences,  and  of  events,  not  uncommon  in  your 
day,  or  in  ours,  but  assuredly  remarkable.  "  Such 
thunders  as  are  unusual  "  now  interest  us  less 
than  "  strange  apparitions,  witchcrafts,  diabolical 
possessions."  The  pious  learned,  in  your  day, 
were  greatly  edified  by  such  circumstances  and 
adventures  as  are  now  collected  and  published  by 
the  Psychical  Society  in  England  and  America. 
You  were  not,  indeed,  so  careful  in  testing  evi- 
dence as  these  earnest  inquirers.  "A  marvellous  re- 
lation "  of  undated  events,  occurring  to  anonymous 
persons,  in  an  unsigned  manuscript,  was  "  a  mar- 
vellous relation  "  to  you,  and  you  looked  no  further. 
In  this  manuscript  you  found  a  tale  which  is 
exactly  like  another  recorded  by  the  Rev.  Mr. 
Wodrow,  a  correspondent  of  your  worthy  son, 
Mr.  Cotton  Mather.  In  your  story,  a  young 


TO  THE  REV.  INCREASE  MATHER      225 

scholar  of  France  signs  a  contract  with  his  blood, 
for  which  he  receives  money  from  a  man  un- 
known, but  doubtless  the  Accuser  of  the  Brethren. 
The  wretch  repenting,  the  ministers  pray  in  the 
field  where  the  contract  was  delivered.  "After 
some  hours'  continuance  in  prayer,  a  cloud  was 
seen  to  spread  itself  over  them,  and  out  of  it  the 
very  contract  signed  with  the  poor  creature's 
blood  was  dropped  down  amongst  them.  The 
relator  had  this  from  the  mouth  of  Mr.  Beau- 
mond,  a  minister  of  note  at  Caen  in  Normandy, 
who  assured  him  that  he  had  it  from  one  of  the 
ministers  that  did  assist  in  carrying  on  the  day  of 
prayer."  You  will  observe,  Sir,  that  the  evidence 
is  at  third  hand.  First,  the  anonymous  minister, 
then  Mr.  Beaumond,  then  the  unknown  relater, 
and  so  the  story  could  not  go  to  a  jury,  nor  even 
to  a  committee  of  your  successors,  the  Psychical 
Society.  But  what  concerns  me  more  is  that  the 
Rev.  Mr.  Wodrow,in  his  "Analecta,"  tells  this  very 
story  about  a  student  of  St.  Andrew's,  in  the  years 
between  1640  and  1661.  Not  for  money,  but  for 
a  sermon  which  he  had  to  preach,  but  could  not 
compose,  did  the  St.  Andrew's  man  sign  with  his 
blood  the  deplorable  document.  The  Presbytery 
of  St.  Andrew's,  therefore,  met  and  prayed  in  a 
remote  church.  When  the  Rev.  Mr.  Blair  prayed, 
the  church  was  shaken  by  a  prodigious  wind,  and 
the  contract  dropped  from  the  roof.  The  world- 
ling will  think  it  more  probable  that  the  myth,  as 
we  now  say,  or  fable,  is  told  in  two  different  places, 


226  LETTERS   TO  DEAD  AUTHORS 

than  that  the  same  illustrious  providence  repeated 
itself  in  Normandy  and  in  Fife.  Moreover,  I  am 
unable  by  searching  to  find  any  note  of  an  event 
so  unusual  in  the  records  of  the  St.  Andrew's 
Presbytery.  The  anecdote,  then,  I  consider  "  not 
very  convincing,"  as  Mr.  Pepys  says  of  the  tale 
about  the  Drummer  of  Tedworth,  which  you  re- 
member publishing  in  your  book.^ 

Though  not  very  difficult  to  satisfy  in  the  mat- 
ter of  evidence,  Sir,  you  do  report,  I  must  admit, 
exactly  the  same  tales  of  witchcraft,  diabolical  pos- 
session, and  strange  apparitions  as  frequently  oc- 
cur among  ourselves,  at  least  if  we  may  believe  the 
narratives  published  by  the  Psychical  Society. 
Like  the  exiled  descendants  of  King  James,  Satan 
seems  to  have  learned  nothing  and  forgotten  no- 
thing; his  new  tricks  are  but  repetitions  of  his 
ancient  pranks.  You  state  briefly,  for  example, 
the  marks  or  signs  of  diabolical  possession : 

I.  If  the  party  concerned  shall  reveal  secret 
things  which  without  supernatural  assistance  could 
not  be  known,  it  argueth  possession. 

Now,  Sir,  the  learned  Mr.  James  and  Mr.  Lodge, 
philosophers,  have  examined  a  lady  from  your  own 
country  who  hath  a  familiar  spirit,  styling  him- 
self Dr.  Phinuit,  and  revealing  secret  things. 
But  whether  Phinuit  be  a  real  spirit,  they  are  in 
doubt.  Some  conceive  that  the  thought  in  the 
inquirer's  mind  reveals  itself  to  the  mind  of  the 
woman  in  trances;  others  maintain  that  she  is  a 
clever  cheat.  She  has  not,  however,  as  yet  been. 


TO  THE  REV.  INCREASE  MATHER      227 

burned,  because   of  the    lamentable    decline   of 
church  discipline. 

2.  "If  he  does  speak  with  strange  languages" 
—  a  matter  now  frequent.   But  the  worldings  main- 
tain that  he  hath  heard  these  languages  spoken, 
and  remembers  them  when  in  a  trance,  albeit  he 
forgets  them  when  wide  awake. 

3.  "  When  the  body  is  become  inflexible  " ;  this 
circumstance  we  now  attribute  rather  to  disease 
than   to  the   devil:   even   as   you  say  that   "the 
excellently  learned  and  judicious  Mr.  Mede  is  of 
opinion  that  the  daemoniacks  whom  we  read  of  in 
the  New  Testament  were  the  same  with  epilepticks, 
lunaticks  and  mad  men." 

As  touching  William  Morse,  of  Newberry, 
"  whose  house  was  strangely  disquieted  by  a 
daemon  "  in  1679,  it  is  true,  or  it  is  reported,  that 
houses  are  still  vexed  in  the  same  manner.  Tables 
and  chairs  leap  about,  stones  are  thrown,  dishes 
jump  (as  befell  in  the  dwelling  of  the  Rev.  Samuel 
Wesley,  whom  you  have  doubtless  consulted  ere 
now),  there  are  knockings  and  rappings.  But  I 
pray  you  to  remark  that  these  mischances  and  dis- 
comforts occurred  when  there  was  an  epileptick 
boy  in  the  house  of  Mr.  Morse,  even  as  in  Scot- 
land, in  1721,  at  the  house  of  Lord  Torpichen. 
So,  with  us,  there  is  commonly  an  hysterical  maid, 
or  a  cunning  child,  where  chairs  and  stools  begin 
to  promenade,  and  stones  to  fly  about.  Nay,  you 
mention  a  case  wherein  a  maid  did  confess  that 
she  herself  threw  the  stones  about,  whereby,  as 


228  LETTERS   TO  DEAD  AUTHORS 

you  innocently  remark,  "  some  seeming  slur  was 
cast  "  on  the  evidence.  You  will  probably  reply 
that  these  epileptick  persons  are  daemoniacks,  and 
could  only  produce  such  annoyances  by  the  aid  of 
Satan.  With  us,  as  in  Newberry,  and  at  Rerrick 
in  Galloway,  in  1696,  "they  would  think  they  had 
hold  of  the  hand  that  sometimes  scratched  them, 
but  it  would  give  them  the  slip,  and  once  a  hand 
got  hold  of  the  man's  wrist,  which  he  saw,  but 
could  not  catch,  and  the  likeness  of  a  blackamore 
child  did  appear  from  under  the  rug  and  blan- 
ket, where  the  man  lay,  and  it  would  rise  up, 
fall  down,  nod,  and  slip  under  the  clothes  when 
they  endeavoured  to  clasp  it,  never  speaking  any- 
thing." 

Apparitions  like  these,  Sir,  as  of  airy  hands  and 
blackamore  children,  are  exhibited  by  men  and 
women,  calling  themselves  "mediums,"  to  the 
curious,  for  money.  But  these  mediums,  though 
none  of  them  have  lately  been  burned,  have  all 
been  detected  as  cheats,  and  deserve  to  be 
whipped. 

I  leave  it  to  your  sagacity  to  decide  whether 
Morse's  epileptick  boy  was  a  cheat,  or  whether  real 
miracles  were  set  forth  by  him  which  are  now  imi- 
tated by  rogues,  especially  in  the  country  where 
you  first  chronicled  illustrious  providences.  But  I 
will  grant  to  you  that  one  thing  is  strange,  namely, 
that  these  very  disturbances  are  said  to  be  wit- 
nessed in  China  and  in  Peru,  where  the  misguided 
converts  of  the  papist  priests  were  handled  and 


TO   THE  REV.  INCREASE  MATHER      229 

entertained  in  the  same  fashion  as  William  Morse 
of  Newberry  in  1679. 

Let  Observation,  with  extensive  view, 
Survey  mankind  from  China  to  Peru, 

and  it  will  discover  the  same  rappings,  stone- 
throwings,  dances  of  furniture,  flying  through  the 
air  of  human  bodies,  and  the  rest,  as  you  describe 
in  the  instances  of  William  Morse,  and  George 
Walton  of  Portsmouth  in  New  England  (June 
n,  1682).  Mr.  Walton's  sufferings  were,  indeed, 
noteworthy,  as  you  report  them.  "  The  man  went 
up  the  great  bay  in  his  boat  to  a  farm  he  had  there, 
and  while  haling  wood  or  timber  to  the  boat,  he 
was  disturbed  by  the  stones,  as  before  at  home. 
He  carried  a  stirrup-iron  from  the  house  down  to 
the  boat,  and  there  left  it :  but  while  he  was  going 
up  to  the  house,  the  iron  came  jingling  after  him 
through  the  woods,  and  returned  to  the  house,  and 
so  again,  and  at  last  went  away.  Their  anchor 
leapt  overboard  several  times  as  they  were  going 
home,  and  stopt  the  boat. "  You  will  read  a  some- 
thing similar  tale,  but  embellished,  I  fear,  by  the 
ingenious  relater,  in  Froissart's  "Chronicles," 
where  he  speaks  of  the  daemon  named  Orthon. 
And  if,  Sir,  you  will  procure  the  "Proceedings  of 
the  Psychical  Society,"  you  shall  read  how  one 
Mr.  F.  was  tossed  about,  like  William  Morse's 
boy;  how  a  picture  was  borne  from  his  house, 
many  leagues  away,  and  thrown  down  on  the 
table ;  how  his  very  boots  were  haled  off,  as  by 


23o  LETTERS   TO  DEAD  AUTHORS 

invisible  hands,  and  flung  abroad ;  how  pieces  of 
wood  sailed  slowly  in  the  air  through  a  carpenter's 
shop  in  Yorkshire, —  with  many  other  anecdotes 
no  less  well  vouched  for,  yet  difficult  to  believe; 
whence  you  must  infer  that  the  daemon,  in  two 
hundred  years,  as  I  said,  has  learned  and  forgot- 
ten nothing,  but  is  permitted  to  torment  us  direly, 
only  not  so  that  he  can  do  it  when  persons  of 
curious  inquiring  minds  are  present  and  examine 
carefully  the  methods  of  the  fiend. 

Indeed,  even  believers  now  aver  that  no  daemon 
is  at  work  in  these  disturbances,  but  some  un- 
known force  of  the  human  mind,  which  can  remove, 
if  not  precisely  mountains,  at  all  events  tables  and 
chairs  and  bits  of  wood.  But  the  new  theory  seems 
to  me  at  least  as  difficult  to  accept  as  your  own 
simple  explanation.  Yet  what  chiefly  perplexes 
me,  I  admit,  is  why  either  Satan,  or  the  unknown 
force,  or  cheats,  always,  everywhere, —  in  Scotland, 
Hayti,  New  England,  Peru,  China,  France,  India, 
and  so  forth, —  do  the  same  things,  and  no  others ; 
or,  if  the  things  be  not  done  at  all,  why  mankind, 
everywhere  and  always,  tells  the  same  lying  tales. 
This  amazes  me  no  less  than  your  saying  that,  ex- 
cept in  some  three  or  four  cases,  "no  place,  nor  any 
person,  in  New  England  hath  been  troubled  with 
apparitions."  Why,  now, Sir,  "apparitions  "  are  as 
common  as  blackberries ;  hence  we  may  conclude 
that  Satan  is  let  loose  for  our  unbelief.  There  is 
scarce  a  feast  but  some  person  there  hath  been 
troubled  by  an  apparition,  or,  at  the  least,  hath  an 


TO   THE  REV.  INCREASE  MATHER      231 

aunt  who  hath  been  so  troubled,  or  knows  a  man 
in  like  condition.  Yet  our  knowledge  in  this  mat- 
ter is  but  little  advanced,  and,  as  you  say,  "  as  yet 
I  have  not  met  with  any  certain  re^r/pta  whereby 
the  certain  appearance  of  a  person  deceased  may 
be  infallibly  discerned  from  a  meer  diabolical  illu- 
sion. The  rules  of  judging,  in  this  case,  described 
by  Mallerus,  are  very  fallible. "  They  are,  indeed, 
and  so,  also,  are  the  rules  of  judging  witches. 

Our  police  no  longer  permit  us  "to  bind  per- 
sons suspected  of  witchcraft  and  cast  them  into  the 
water,  so  as  that,  if  they  keep  above  the  water,  they 
shall  be  deemed  as  confederate  with  the  devil," 
and  so  burned;  "but  if  they  sink  they  are  ac- 
quitted of  the  crime  of  witchcraft.  King  James 
approveth  of  it,"  as  you  say,  and  it  was  much  prac- 
tised by  our  fathers,  in  the  Witch's  Lake,  at  St. 
Andrew's.  Thereby,  as  one  who  is  my  friend  very 
wisely  says,  "  the  Johnnies  on  shore  were  dormy 
anyhow,"  which  speech  I  report  that  you  may 
learn  how  much  our  English  language  hath  been 
corrupted.  For  his  meaning  is,  that  the  people 
on  the  beach  were,  in  any  case,  assured  of  their 
entertainment,  the  accused  being  drowned  if  ac- 
quitted, and  burned  if  found  guilty.  And  I  am 
of  your  mind,  and  persuaded  by  the  arguments 
of  Wierus,  Bodinus,  Hemmingius,  Hornius,  Dr. 
Cotta,  and  Mr.  Perkins,  that  King  James  VI.  is 
in  error,  and  that  this  proba,  or  mode  of  trial,  is 
unlawful.  It  may  comfort  you  to  learn  that  the 
people  called  Quakers  no  longer  "bark  like  dogs," 


232  LETTERS  TO  DEAD  AUTHORS 

as  in  your  time,  nor  do  they  go  naked  in  the 
roads  to  see  the  New  Jerusalem.  Thus,  Sir,  if 
in  some  things  we  are  more  unfortunate  than 
your* generation,  notably  in  the  frequency  of  ap- 
paritions, at  least  we  are  not  disturbed  in  the  night 
season  by  the  barking  of  Quakers.  Thus  the 
world  wags  on,  being  neither  much  more  foolish 
nor  much  wiser,  on  the  whole,  than  it  was  when 
you  preached  in  the  North  Church  of  Boston, 
which  is  now  a  very  considerable  village.  The 
citizens,  also,  have  got  Culture,  but,  it  may  be,  less 
of  Greek  than  you  quote  in  your  "  Illustrious 
Providences." 


TO    HOMER 


XXV 


To  Homer 


OMER! — if  by  that  name  it  pleases 
thee  to  be  called, —  to  what  man,  or 
what  multitude  of  men,  in  what  age, 
on  what  shore,  does  my  thought  wing 
forth?  "  As  a  bird,  as  a  thought,"  my  spirit  flies, 
whither  ?  And  in  what  shrine  shall  she  find  thee, 
among  what  oak  trees  oracular,  in  rugged  Ithaca, 
in  Mycenae  of  the  mighty  walls,  by  Erechtheus* 
fane  in  Athens,  or  by  the  waters  of  Smyrna? 
The  wild  Roman  emperor  dreamed  that  the  Sea 
came  to  his  bedside  and  spake  to  him  in  human 
voice.  Thy  voice,  though  of  a  man,  is  as  the 
voice  of  the  sea.  Comes  its  multitudinous  music 
from  one  mouth,  or,  as  it  were,  from  a  wilderness 
of  waves  on  the  waters  of  Time  ?  "  Others 
abide  our  question,  thou  art  free," — alone  with 
Shakspeare  in  thy  freedom.  "  Far  off  from  men 
235 


^tf^l 
flTNIVERi 


236          LETTERS  TO  DEAD  AUTHORS 

thou  dwellest,"  like  thine  own  Phoenicians,  "in 
the  midst  of  the  wash  of  the  waves  "  that  break 
on  the  shores  of  Greece.  The  old  scholar  sought 
.'to  raise  thy  spirit  and  question  it,  but  it  came 
not.  From  no  Oracle  of  the  Dead  dost  thou  utter 
thy  response, —  dwelling  where  Lucian  saw  thee 
among  the  souls  of  heroes  in  the  Islands 
Fortunate. 

Glad  and  sad  are  thy  fates,  as  those  of  Thamyris, 
whom  the  Muses  reft  of  sight,  but  they  gave  him 
the  gift  of  song.  Song  they  have  given  thee, 
song  immortal,  but  have  borne  thee,  like  thine 
own  Odysseus,  out  of  eyesight  and  ear-shot  of 
mankind.  The  later  learned  have  called  thee,  not 
"  one  form  of  many  names,"  but  one  name  of 
many  forms.  A  hundred  voices  in  varying  cen- 
turies sang,  so  they  tell  us,  some  well,  some  ill, 
and  all  the  voices  blended  in  these  thy  two 
deathless  poems,  making  an  unison,  making  an 
anthem,  making  a  ceaseless  harmony  in  the  ears 
of  the  world,  blending  magically  in  the  enchanted 
tales  that  have  shaped  history  and  murmured  at 
the  cradles  of  Empires.  So  the  innumerable 
atoms,  falling,  falling,  through  the  limitless  ether, 
have  mingled,  by  chance,  in  one  universe,  or  so 
they  tell  us.  But,  even  if  the  universe  came  thus, 
uncreated,  and  is  not  bound  by  golden  chains  be- 
neath the  throne  of  Zeus,  not  so,  methinks,  came 
thy  poems.  Not  so  did  any  such  poems  ever 
come  into  the  light ;  nay,  mens  agitat  molem,  as 
the  Roman  singer  says  of  the  whole  cosmos, 


TO  HOMER  237 

and  a  mind  shaped  thy  lay  out  of  atoms  of  old 
song  and  old  story,  and  that  mind,  O  unknown 
minstrel!  was  thine. 

Chance  builds  not  up  these  palaces  of  Romance, 
perfect  in  design,  from  the  goddess  on  the  temple 
crest  to  the  lowest  stone  of  the  altar.  To  Apollo's 
song  did  "  Ilion,  like  a  mist,  grow  into  towers  " ; 
nay,  not  to  Apollo's  song,  but  to  thy  harping. 
Chance  builds  no  city,  much  less  does  chance 
people  it  with  heroes  and  ladies,  all  living,  all 
harmonious  ever  with  themselves.  Chance  drew 
not  the  beauty,  the  sweetness,  the  helplessness 
of  Helen;  the  courage  of  Hector,  invincible  and 
unclouded,  though  well  he  knows  that  sacred  Ilios 
must  perish,  the  city  of  Priam  of  the  ashen  spear. 
Chance  makes  not  Odysseus  always  consistent  with 
himself,  the  hardy  heart,  the  ready  at  need,  the  man 
of  wile,  the  indomitable  by  war  and  wave,  the  much 
enduring,  the  loved  of  goddesses.  Chance  never 
breathed  life  and  love  and  hate  and  honor  and 
ruthlessness  into  the  breast  of  Achilles,  and  then 
melted  the  hatred  in  pity,  and  turned  the  ruth- 
lessness to  ruth  at  the  sight  of  the  tears  and  the 
gray  hairs  of  his  broken  foe :  who  "  seemed  so 
like  his  father." 

It  is  because  thou  art  so  great,  and  men  so  little, 
that  they  misdoubt  thee,  not  believing  that  the  eyes 
of  one  alone  have  seen  Hera  on  her  couch  of  flowers, 
and  Poseidon  in  the  chariot  of  the  sea;  have  looked 
on  the  face  of  war,  on  the  arraying  of  goddesses,  on 
the  bridal  chamber  of  Helen;  have  watched  the 


238  LETTERS  TO  DEAD  AUTHORS 

lonely  isle  where  Circe  chants  at  her  loom,  and  the 
gray  vaporous  dwellings  of  the  dead.  They  believe 
not  that  one  human  snnl  hfls  known  every  axL. 
and  all  the  thoughts  of  women  as  of  men,  all  lives 
of  beasts  on  hill  and  plain,  all  the  innocence  of 
childhood,  and  its  beautiful  ways,  all  the  delight 
of  battle,  the  dread  of  ambush,  the  slow  agony  of 
jiege^the  storms  and  the  calms  .of  the  sea.  ln_ 
thy  soul,  as  in  the  soul  of  Zeus,  is  the  whole  world 
mirrored^  there  is  no  mood  but  thou  knowest  and 
canst  divine  and  declare  it :  but  this  is  too  much 
for  the  belief  of  bookmen  "buzzing  in  a  corner, 
trifling  with  monosyllables,"  and  they  vow  that 
thou  art  not  one,  but  a  multitude.  Then,  as  even 
they  know  that  Chance  alone  cannot  shape  many 
lays  of  many  minstrels  into  one  song,  they  must 
feign  that  some  later  wight,  himself  a  bookman, 
patched  and  forged,  and  botched  and  bungled,  till, 
somehow,  he  joined  the  scattered  lays  into  the 
immortal  wholes.  Still,  as  being  but  a  bookman, 
and  scarce  other  than  themselves,  he  must  needs 
have  been  a  blunderer,  they  are  driven  to  justify 
themselves  and  their  doctrine  by  finding  blunders 
in  thee.  He  who  is  bent  on  finding  at  all  costs,  dis- 
covers what  he  seeks.  If  Time  has  touched  even  thy 
work,  here  covering  an  altar  with  lichen,  there  mak- 
ing a  stone  to  moulder,  or  dimming  the  bronze  work, 
or  half  obliterating  a  scroll,  pedants  seize  on  these 
things  as  proofs  of  their  opinion,  and  the  mistakes 
which  they  cannot  find  they  very  readily  make  out 
of  thf.ir  own  abundance  of  misunderstanding. 


TO  HOMER  239 

The  city  is  not  builded  by  an  architect,  the  altar 
is  not  graven,  the  god  is  not  carved  by  an  artist. 
There  is  but  a  patched,  botched  ruin  of  many  ages ; 
fragments  by  many  hands ;  scraps,  odds  and  ends, 
rubbish,  rough-hewn  stones ;  a  lumber-room  of  dis- 
crepant centuries :  these  things  the  learned  see  in 
the  temples  where  the  wise  and  brave  of  thirty  cen- 
turies have  worshipped,  in  the  city  where  they  have 
dwelt  with  souls  divine,  all  honoring  thee.  Barba- 
rians they  are,  and  everywhere  they  see  barbarism : 
living  in  a  chaos,  among  the  wrecks  of  worlds  and 
faiths,  they  know  not  law,  they  find  ruin  everywhere, 
even  in  thine  Iliad  and  Odyssey.  The  eye  of  each 
man  sees  but  what  it  has  the  power  of  seeing,  and 
what  spectacles  behold  is  not  that  which  lies  visible 
to  the  naked  glance  of  natural  men.  We  now  pos- 
sess instruments  which  show  us  a  world  within  the 
common  world,  which  thou  and  thy  coevals,  looking 
on,  were  glad.  The  smooth  becomes  rough  under 
these  instruments ;  the  beautiful  is  changed ;  the 
cheek  of  Helen  is  scarred,  seamed,  pitted,  when 
we  stare  at  it  through  these  glasses.  Thy  poems,  ^ 
too,  so  spied  upon,  are  found  thick  with  flaw  and 
blemish,  like  the  face  of  Helen;  therefore,  it  is 
argued  they  are  not  thine,  nor  any  one  man's,  but 
a  heap  of  things  old  and  not  so  old,  fair  and  base 
as  each  man  chooses  to  deem,  and  most  deem  dif- 
ferently, each  squabbling  with  the  other.  Nay,  let 
the  learned  turn  the  same  instruments  on  any  other 
art  of  men  lately  dead  or  of  men  living.  The  same 
blemishes,  the  same  flaws,  will  they  find,  and  hon- 


24o  LETTERS   TO  DEAD  AUTHORS 

estly  should  come  to  the  same  conclusion,  namely, 
that  no  one  poem  is  the  work  of  any  one  man. 
But  they  will  not  look  this  way,  nor  listen  if  any 
bids  them  look.  They  shall  all  die  in  their  sins. 
Helen  hath  not  blinded  them  as  she  blinded  of  old 
Stesichorus ;  but,  cursing  them  in  another  fashion, 
has  made  them  see  the  big  as  little,  and  the  little 
as  big,  and  nothing  in  thee  as  the  natural  eye  be- 
holds and  the  natural  ear  listens.  Verily,  when 
thou  wert  about  shaping  thy  minstrelsy,  thou  hadst 
no  such  men  in  thy  mind,  but  warriors,  hunters, 
seamen,  fair  ladies,  little  children;  and  these 
others  were  unborn  and  undreamed  of. 

Oh,  Father  of  the  rest,  first  and  prince  of  poets, 
how  often  and  how  vainly  we  look  through  the  far- 
off  years  seeking  thy  face !  Do  we  find  thee  sing- 
ing in  some  bronze-decked  hall  of  rich  Mycenae, 
the  golden  cup  standing  at  thy  side,  on  the  table  of 
cedar  and  ivory ;  the  bearded  kings,  the  warriors, 
the  women  listening  to  thy  song  ?  May  we  dis- 
cover thee  practising  a  new  art  and  strange,  grav- 
ing Phoenician  symbols  on  tablets  of  wood,  or 
writing  with  a  reed  pen  on  slips  of  papyrus  ? 

At  least  we  know  the  places  that  have  known 
thee :  long  sands  where  the  long  wave  breaks  in 
thunder;  woods  that  are  haunted  by  the  nymphs 
and  fresh  with  spring;  black  ships  with  curved 
prow ;  rocks  where  the  fisher  sits  and  casts  his 
lure  into  the  sea;  hills  where  the  mist  comes  thick 
and  dark ;  narrow  glens  in  the  mountains  where 
is  the  meeting  of  two  roaring  streams ;  sea  beaches 


TO  HOMER 


241 


where,  in  winter,  the  foam  and  the  snow  fly  min- 
gled; fields  thickset  with  hyacinth  and  crocus; 
rivers  that  murmur  between  their  steep  walls  to 
the  deep, —  all  these  things  we  see,  as  Homer  saw 
them,  and  still  shows  them  to  us;  and,  seeing 
them,  we  know  that  we  are  where  he  has  been, 
and  we  remember  him  and  give  him  thanks. 
Gratitude,  and  praise,  and  love  we  offer  to  the 
mightiest  of  Makers,  unknown  and  unseen,  with- 
drawn and  irresponsive  as  he  is ;  praise,  and  love, 
and  gratitude  we  bring  him,  as  we  bring  them  to 
the  footstool  of  Zeus,  whom  we  see  not  with  the 
bodily  eye,  who  speaks  not  to  the  fleshly  ear. 
For  there  is  a  poet  in  the  poems,  as  there  is  a  God 
in  the  world. 


TO   SAMUEL   PEPYS,  ESQ. 


XXVI 


To  Samuel  Pepys,  Esq. 


ONORED  SIR,— It  was  the  saying  of 
a  wise  man,  though  a  young  one,  that 
we  do  all  of  us  travel  through  life  with 
a  donkey.  You  kept  your  donkey  in  a 
stable  very  private.  The  charger  dwelt  in  that 
noted  Diary  of  yours,  a  journal  written  in  cipher, 
which  has  now  for  many  years  been  transcribed 
in  plain  hand,  and  given  to  the  world.  Mr.  Pepys, 
do  not,  I  pray  you,  blush  so  fiery  a  red ;  not  all 
the  Diary  hath  yet  been  made  public,  and  the 
world  is  still  a  stranger  to  many  of  those  most  pri- 
vate confidences  between  your  donkey  and  your- 
self. Matters  there  be  which  I  could  mention, 
an  I  would,  but  I  write  for  a  generation  in  which 
they  who  read  not  are  very  modest,  and  will  raise 
a  cry  against  you  and  me,  if  I  keep  not  a  bridle 
on  my  pen.  The  record  of  a  whole  day  in  the  sad 
245 


246  LETTERS   TO  DEAD  AUTHORS 

story  of  Deb  is  omitted;  concerning  Knip  and 
Pierce,  and  a  certain  other  lady  (oh  fie,  Mr.  Pepys ! ) 
the  world  knows  no  more  than  the  worthy  minis- 
ter, your  editor,  chose  to  tell  it. 

You,  Sir,  of  all  men,  have  been,  thanks  to  the 
companion  of  which  I  spoke,  your  own  Boswell. 
You  know  James  well,  I  make  no  doubt,  and  have 
spoken  with  him  and  Dr.  Johnson,  ere  now,  con- 
cerning the  Deuteroskopia,  or  Second  Sight  of  the 
Highlanders.  It  was  a  topic,  you  remember, 
whereon  my  Lord  Reay  corresponded  with  you, 
giving  several  singular  instances,  as  that,  a  woman 
having  foretold  a  certain  man  would  be  hanged, 
hanged  he  was,  though  once  "enjoying  the  repute 
of  an  honest  man."  Give  me  leave  to  break  off 
in  what  I  had  to  say  of  Mr.  Boswell  of  Auchin- 
leck,  that  I  may  mention  a  curious  little  circum- 
stance. To  another  I  would  not  speak  of  this,  but 
Mr.  Pepys  is  curious.  Mr.  Pepys  loves  an  old 
book,  a  rare  book,  a  grave,  innocent  book,  as  well 
as  "a  roguish  French  book."  Of  late  I  have 
busied  myself  to  publish  again  "  The  Secret  Com- 
monwealth "  of  the  Rev.  Robert  Kirk  of  Aberfoyle, 
written  by  him  in  1691.  Some  other  curious  per- 
son printed  one  hundred  copies  of  this  treatise  on 
«  The  Second  Sight,"  in  1815  ;  but  the  learned  be- 
lieved that  there  was  a  printed  edition  of  1691. 
No  copy  thereof  could  be  found  in  any  of  our  li- 
braries, and  now  I  surmise,  from  my  Lord  Reay's 
letter  to  you,  that  it  never  was  printed  before  1815. 
For  his  lordship  says,  in  1699 :  "  I  have  got  a  man- 


TO  SAMUEL  PEPYS,  ESQ. 

uscript,  since  I  last  came  to  Scotland,  whose  au- 
thor, though  a  parson,  does,  after  giving  a  very 
full  account  of  the  Second  Sight,  defend  there  be- 
ing no  sin  in  it."  This  is  the  precise  argument  of 
Mr.  Kirk,  "a  parson,"  whose  book,  it  seems,  was 
still  in  manuscript.  But  my  lord  appears  to  think 
that,  in  1699,  he  is  yet  alive,  whereas  his  neigh- 
bors declared  that  he  was  carried  off  by  the  Daoine 
Shie,  or  People  of  Peace,  in  1692.  My  Lord  Clar- 
endon and  Dr.  Hickes  also  corresponded  with  you, 
but  I  gather,  from  your  courteous  replies,  that  you 
thought  "the  discourse  well  writ,  in  good  style, 
but  not  very  convincing,"  as  you  say  concerning 
Dr.  GlanviFs  tale  of  "  The  Demon  Drummer  of 
Tedworth."  But  whether  my  Lord  Reay  wrote 
concerning  Mr.  Kirk  or  not,  I  am  not  yet  con- 
firmed. My  lord  promised  to  send  you  the  man- 
uscript, which  I  have  vainly  inquired  for  among 
your  treasures  at  Magdalene  College.  Perchance 
my  Lord  Reay  had  in  his  mind  the  treatise  of  Mr. 
Frazer,  the  parson  of  Coll  and  Tiree  (1707). 

Pardon  this  divagation  into  affairs  which  amused 
both  your  own  curiosity  and  that  of  Dr.  Johnson, 
to  whom  I  now  return.  His  friend,  Mr.  Boswell, 
as  you  know,  wrote  the  life  of  that  great  and  good 
man ;  no  better  life  hath  ever  been  penned.  But 
it  cannot  have  escaped  your  penetration  that  Mr. 
Boswell  is  something  of  an  ass.  I  speak  it  lov- 
ingly, for,  in  part  by  virtue  of  his  asinine  qualities, 
combined  with  others,  he  told  tales  of  himself  and 
his  friend  such  as  another  would  not  have  narrated. 


248  LETTERS  TO  DEAD  AUTHORS 

You,  too,  Mr.  Pepys,  when  you  ran  to  your  jour- 
nal, fell  into  the  mood  of  Mr.  Bos  well,  therefore 
it  is  that  we  know  in  you  two  different  men :  the 
Mr.  Pepys  of  the  Diary,  vain,  jealous,  of  a  mar- 
vellous poor  spirit,  a  pillar  of  theatres  and  taverns ; 
and  the  Mr.  Pepys  of  the  Admiralty,  a  patriot,  a 
great  man  of  affairs,  and  to  a  foolish  and  unhappy 
king  a  servant  as  loyal  as  Dundee.  The  Mr. 
Pepys  who  was  Evelyn's  friend,  who  was  President 
of  the  Royal  Society,  who  re-made  the  glorious 
English  navy,  and  raised  it  from  its  shame;  the 
Mr.  Pepys  whose  "greatness  in  death  was  answer- 
able to  the  greatness  of  his  life,"  is,  alas !  forgotten 
by  all  but  the  learned.  The  Mr.  Pepys  who  was 
affrighted  by  his  young  gibcat,  which  he  "  took  for 
a  sprite "  ;  the  Mr.  Pepys  who  joyed  in  a  new 
coat ;  who  was  so  proud  of  being  addressed  as 
"  Esquire  " ;  who  stinted  his  wife  in  clothes  and 
pleasure,  while  he  went  brave  and  joyous  himself; 
the  Mr.  Pepys  who  courted  Knip,  and  made  love 
to  Deb,  and  took  vows  and  broke  them,  and  had  his 
bellyful  of  Magdalene  beer — that  naughty,  roguish 
Mr.  Pepys  is  known,  and  loved,  and  read  by  all 
men  who  read  at  all. 

Of  bedside  books,  Sir,  which  may  send  a  man 
happily  to  sleep,  with  a  smile  on  his  lips,  your 
egregious  Diary  is  by  far  the  best  and  dearest. 
Compared  with  you,  Montaigne  is  dry,  Bos  well  is 
too  full  of  matter ;  but  one  can  take  you  up  any- 
where, and  anywhere  lay  you  down,  certain  of 
being  diverted  by  the  picture  of  that  companion 


TO  SAMUEL  PEPYS,  ESQ.  249 

with  whom  you  made  your  journey  through  life. 
Unlike  to  that  which  St.  Francis  spoke  of  himself, 
thou  wert  not  "  too  hard  on  thy  brother,  the  Ass," 
rather  treating  him  as  one  who  loved  him.  Whether 
you  are  digging  up  your  treasure,  so  openly  and 
palpably  buried  at  midday  by  Mrs.  Pepys,or  hunt- 
ing for  that  other  treasure  in  the  tower  which  you  did 
not  find,  or  boxing  the  boy  Eliezer's  ears  for  spill- 
ing the  beer  over  your  papers,  or  going — yourself 
a  boy —  to  see  your  king  murdered,  or  meeting  Mr. 
James  Sharpe,  later  murdered  himself  as  our  Arch- 
bishop, on  the  voyage  to  bring  back  the  second 
Charles,  or  "in  an  ill  humor  of  anger  with  your 
wife  to  bed,"  you  are  perpetually  the  most  amusing 
of  gossips,  and  of  all  who  have  gossiped  about  them- 
selves, the  only  one  who  tells  the  truth.  You  have 
such  an  appetite  for  life  that  to  read  you  almost 
makes  a  sated  student  hungry  again.  There  is 
absolutely  no  experience  but  you  get  some  kind  of 
delight  in  it,  keeping  the  anniversary  of  that  cruel 
operation  which  preserved  Mr.  Pepys  to  a  grate- 
ful country.  "  A  flagon  of  ale  and  apples  drunk 
out  of  a  wooden  cup,"  lives  forever,  and  "  makes 
all  merry  "  still,  because  you  tasted  it  and  re- 
corded it. 

To  see  an  old  play  over  again  delights  you, 
"  which  is  the  pleasure  of  my  not  committing  these 
things  to  my  memory."  That  is  also  the  pleasure 
of  not  committing  your  Diary  to  our  memories ; 
your  deeds  and  misdeeds,  your  dinners  and  kisses, 
glide  from  our  recollections,  and,  being  read  again, 


25o  LETTERS  TO  DEAD  AUTHORS 

surprise  and  amuse  us  afresh.  Decies  repetita 
placebit,  that  fabula  de  te.  In  church,  Mr.  Pepys, 
however  dull  the  Scot's  sermon  may  be,  you  are 
never  dull.  There  is  generally  a  pretty  face  to 
stare  at,  a  pretty  hand  to  squeeze,  while  you  pre- 
sent it  with  a  hymn-book.  Only  once  we  read,  in 
church-time,  "  not  a  handsome  face  in  all  of  them, 
as  if,  indeed,  there  was  a  curse  upon  our  parish,  as 
Bishop  Fuller  heretofore  said."  But  what  a  blun- 
der that  was  when  you  "  took  another  pretty  wo- 
man for  Betty  Michell,  and  taking  her  a  clap  on 
the" — -back,  found  out  your  mistake;  Mr.  Pepys, 
was  this  a  gallant  or  ordinary  form  of  salutation, 
when  "  good  King  Charles  "  (as  my  Lord  Ailes- 
bury  lovingly  styles  him)  was  our  ruler  ?  And 
with  what  face  can  you  blame  the  Court  and  praise 
the  Puritans,  you  who  are  such  a  runagate  and 
outlier  ?  Why,  you  were  in  love  with  half  of  King 
Charles's  beauties,  though  "  my  Lady  Castlemaine 
never  looked  so  ill,  nor  Mrs.  Stewart  either,  as  in 
this  plain,  natural  dress."  Yet  to  a  plain,  natural 
dress",  as  far  as  you  dared,  you  restricted  your  wife, 
poor  wretch,  scolding  and  bullying  her  for  some 
tiny  female  extravagance  in  a  pair  of  cheap  earrings. 
This  is  what  we  like  least  in  you,  Sir.  You  had 
an  open  hand  for  your  own  pleasures;  why  so 
surly,  then,  with  Mrs.  Pepys?  Your  hand  was 
open  for  presents,  too,  and  in  our  day,  though  you 
were  indifferent  honest  in  your  own,  we  think  you 
sailed  very  near  the  wind  in  the  matter  of  bribery. 
But  other  times,  other  manners.  You  did  not  buy 


TO  SAMUEL  PEPYS,  ESQ.  251 

the  King  bad  bargains,  if  you  took  a  trifling  toll 
by  the  way.  If  you  loved  pleasure,  and  a  pretty 
maid,  and  oysters,  and  ale,  and  the  play,  you  loved 
books,  too,  and  wisely;  "they  were  growing  nu- 
merous and  lying  one  upon  another  on  my  chairs," 
to  which  trouble,  Sir,  your  humble  and  obliged 
servant  is  also  a  martyr.  Indeed,  what  did  you 
not  like — pictures,  scientific  instruments,  ruling 
your  account-books,  "a  song  in  the  garden  with 
your  wife  and  the  girl,"  "flinging  fireworks,  and 
mighty  merry,  smutting  one  another  with  candle- 
grease  and  soot  till  most  of  us  were  like  devils." 
Simple  enjoyments  were  these.  A  grave  official 
dresses  as  a  maid,  his  maid  as  a  boy,  Mrs.  Pepys 
and  Peggy  Pen  put  on  periwigs,  they  all  dance  a 
jig;  "  thus  we  spent  till  three  or  four  in  the  morn- 
ing, mighty  merry,  and  then  parted  and  to  bed." 

The  Plague  comes,  and  you  cling  to  your  work 
like  a  hero ;  the  Fire  comes,  the  Dutch  come,  the 
wild  westland  Whigs  march  on  Edinburgh;  young 
cornets  mimic  the  Scotch  covenanting  preachers 
for  the  entertainment  of  the  Archbishop  of  Canter- 
bury ;  gamblers  crowd  Whitehall ;  the  Restoration 
rushes  to  its  ruin ;  through  it  all  you  look  on,  now 
with  a  sigh,  now  with  a  laugh ;  you  do  your  duty 
manfully,  you  take  your  fling  like  a  man ;  you  are 
wicked,  you  are  found  out,  you  crouch  and  shiver 
and  repent;  you  are  cowardly,  mean,  and  you 
know  it;  generous,  daring  in  your  way,  all  by 
turns,  and  every  turn  you  note  down  as  calmly  as 
if  you  were  speaking  of  a  stranger.  And  it  really 


252  LETTERS   TO  DEAD  AUTHORS 

is  of  a  stranger  you  speak,  of  some  one  who  is  not 
the  official,  sedate  Mr.  Pepys,  but  the  lively,  indis- 
creet animal,  in  whose  society  he  marches  through 
revolution,  restoration,  revolution  again,  "  and  so 
to  bed  "  at  last,  full  of  years  and  honors. 

By  you,  when  you  reached  the  land,  the  awful 
land  where  nothing  is  forgotten,  where  all  our  lives 
lie  open  to  us  like  a  book,  perhaps  there  was  little 
of  lost  to  be  recovered.  All  was  written  down  too 
distinctly  in  these  ciphered  pages,  the  only  pages 
among  the  books  of  the  world  which  show  us  a 
character  as  it  really  was.  It  were  unchristian  to 
judge  you;  priggish  and  foolish  to  despise  you; 
to  admire  you  is  not  very  easy;  but,  dear  Mr. 
Pepys,  we  all  truly  love  you,  and  what  better  price 
can  you  be  paid  for  the  ciphering  that  so  harmed 
your  eyesight  ?  A  sad  sorrow  to  you,  Sir,  but  even 
a  greater  trouble  to  ourselves.  You  should  have 
kept  that  journal  your  whole  life  long,  and  told  us 
of  that  shameful  Popish  Plot,  wherein  you  were 
so  wickedly  handled ;  of  lying  Shaftesbury,  and 
his  tattle  about  your  crucifix ;  of  King  Charles's 
death;  of  Monmouth's  rising;  of  that  ill  Revolu- 
tion where  James,  who  was  brave  as  Duke  of 
York,  lost  his  heart  as  King,  and  fled ;  though 
"  a  wave  of  the  bonnet  of  bonnie  Dundee  "  might 
have  dispelled  the  traitors  and  sent  Marlborough 
packing  after  Sunderland.  What  a  chronicle  we 
have  lost,  what  a  veracious  recorder  was  spoiled 
by  that  malady  of  your  eyesight ;  how  your  peni- 
tence, which  makes  us  smile  while  your  wife  lived 


TO   SAMUEL  PEPYS,  ESQ.  253 

to  threaten  you  with  the  tongs,  would  have  made 
us  weep  when  she  was  no  more  living  to  be  sinned 
against ! 

The  pearl  necklace  which  you  gave  (it  cost  you 
£64)  yet  adorns  a  great-great-great-granddaughter 
of  your  plain  sister,  Pal ;  and  your  family  treasures 
the  silver-gilt  flagon  which  was  presented  to  Mr. 
Pepys  by  King  James.  How  our  toys  do  outlast 
us,  bringing  living  men  close  to  the  famous  dead, 
and  the  fallen  dynasty  ! 


